MSCL Vignettes
by Jody Barsch
Summary: Short, independent snapshots of the characters - before, during, and after the show. Primarily Jordan and Angela. As scenes may sometimes be added out of sequence, chapter numbers will be revised and reordered. NEWEST: 12 (5/22/13) - UPDATED (5/24): scenes between Brian & Rayanne by phone & in hall; RECENT: 6 and 30 (4/22/13); CHAPTER 35 UPDATED—new section added (4/12/13)
1. Try This

**Hello! This story is a collection of vignettes spanning from several years before the series to many years after. I am not writing these stories in sequence; as such, though I'm ****inserting them chronologically, **new chapters may be hard to find (I'll try to point them out, but you may have to search a little also, sorry!) [If I'm currently posting later years chapters, i.e. Angela and Jordan as adults, don't worry, there are many high school chapters still to come.] **Most importantly, THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading, I really appreciate your feedback!**

_(On that note, this site does not allow users to leave multiple posts on the same chapter, which can be difficult for this story as the chapter numbers are constantly being re-sequenced and revised. If you've run into this problem, you can find another chapter to post to, or post under your username but logged in as a guest. Thanks, and happy reading!)_

* * *

_**Set before the series; this is the first of a couple of small moments that serve as the 'origin story' for the Jordan Catalano we see in the series - at least in terms of his interactions with the opposite sex. The following scenes span almost a year, time passing between each of them.**_

* * *

An eleven-year-old Jordan Catalano is down by the river, messing around on his bike under the shade of the trees. He pops a wheelie, jumps a small mound of dirt, grabs at a low hanging branch as he passes by.

Through a path through the trees and brush comes another cyclist. Also eleven, this rider takes her time down the trail, riding first up one bank then the other. Standing as she pedals, her white sundress flutters behind her, while her long flaxen hair blows loosely about her face. From the corner of his eye Jordan notices her, but keeps riding.

Shelly, slow to smile, and ever watchful with her large green eyes, crosses his course, "Hey."

Pedaling backwards, Jordan takes a longer look at her, then casts his gaze toward the water, "Hi." He pedals backwards then swerves into a wide circle.

"You ignoring me?"

Jordan doesn't answer right away. "No."

She swerves in the opposite direction, never looking away from him for more than a moment at a time. "It's okay if you are."

Coasting for a moment, he looks at her, intently, "I'm not." He resumes pedaling, throwing her a head nod, "What're you doin'?"

She snatches some leaves off a tree as she passes beneath. She looks at him. He looks away. She looks away. She looks back. "Seeing how long I can stay out till anyone comes and looks for me." By this point they're circling round each other in big lazy loops.

Jordan throws in wryly, "Bet I'd beat you."

Interested, Shelly looks back at him over her shoulder, "How come?" Jordan shrugs, and instead of answering he attempts a wheelie.

"That needs practice." Standing on her pedals again, she does a double bounce, lifting herself and her bike an inch or so off the ground. "You smoke?" Jordan shakes his head, unblinking. "I'm down to my last one." She turns away, taking a small trail down closer to the river; as she rides, Jordan's view of her is quickly obstructed by brush and branches. "You coming?"

Jordan, who had stopped riding, kicks hard off the ground then pedals standing to follow. The path breaks through to a tiny pebble beach on the river bank. She stands, still astride her bike, and produces from her cotton halter dress a cigarette and book of matches. She lights the cigarette, inhales, and passes it to Jordan, who takes it, and thus begins his smoking habit; his eyes still watching her.

She watches him inhale a few times. "They say it gives you cancer; but, so does the sun, and cherries - maraschinos - and that doesn't stop people." Jordan coughs, "You'll get better at it; if you try." Jordan laughs. Being told to practice something is nothing new; he heard it all the time at school - 'Worker harder', but he'd never expected to hear it in the context of vice, and this girl said it so matter-of-factly, the way she said everything; Jordan smiles. She's still watching him, "You don't talk a lot. _ I like that." Jordan looks at her as he hands back the cigarette, taking this in.

* * *

Jordan quickly rides his bike to the river bank where Shelly sits with her feet in the water. He sets his bike down on its side, and approaches her, tapping her shoulder with a slightly crumpled half-full pack of cigarettes. She turns her head to him and smiles. She takes the pack and he takes a seat.

"They're my dad's."

"I usually smoke menthols. _ Well, my grandma does." She removes a cigarette and places it gingerly between her lips. Jordan produces a book of matches and strikes one for her; she leans in for him to light it, their eyes meet. "Thanks." She exhales just to the side of his face. Jordan finds a few flat stones at his feet and starts to skip them across the water. "I can never get them to hit the water more than once."

"That's called throwing. _ Here—" he chooses a rock for her, "try this." He hands it over, "You gotta use your wrist."

* * *

Shelly and Jordan are swimming in the river; their bikes, shoes, and extraneous clothing items lay on the embankment. Jordan emerges from the water, still laughing a bit, and lies on the warm ground. Shelly swims a bit longer, diving like a porpoise to the river bottom then floating on her back, just barely fluttering her hands to stay afloat, staring at the sun for as long as she can stand it. When the clouds drift across the sun she too comes ashore, and settles beside Jordan on the warm pebbles, disregarding the large black ants moving across her feet. She watches him lying with eyes closed. Leaning over him her long hair drips water on him; she smudges it way from his face, then bends down and kisses him.

Jordan doesn't know quite how to react. But it's over so quickly he doesn't have to react; she's once again lying beside him, eyes closed, enjoying the sunshine on her tanned skin.

* * *

**Months later ...**

Jordan walks down a path towards the river where he finds Shelly sitting on a rock, smoking, her bike on its side in the tall grass.

"Hi." She doesn't answer, she only keeps smoking. "What's up? _ Shell."

Still staring blankly ahead, cigarette perched between her fingers threatening to drop ashes on her knee, she says flatly, "We're moving." She flicks off the ashes just before they drop. Jordan takes a step closer.

"_ When?"

"A month."

Kicking at the dirt Jordan asks, "Where're you going?"

"Austin, Texas."

"Sucks."

She takes another drag, "No kidding." Jordan casts a glance at her, then when she does not move, he scoops up some pebbles at his feet.

Throwing a few stones, Jordan thinks his way through this, "And, you're not, coming back?" She shakes her head. Not terribly happy to be hearing this, Jordan does what he does, "Hey, no more snow, right?"

"I like the snow."

Jordan pushes her shoulder good naturedly, "You only say that in August." She kind of smiles, in spite of herself. "It could be cool, right?"

"I don't want to feel better about it." Jordan nods, he kicks at the dirt for a bit. Then he pulls her up from where she's been sitting. He kisses her. She carefully puts out her cigarette, balances it on a rock for safe keeping, then kisses him.

* * *

Two months after the move he receives a letter, on sky blue stationary with sketches in the margins of this and that. It takes him three weeks to send back a postcard. Eventually it is answered by a letter covertly written at school; included with it is a wallet-sized school picture. Jordan keeps the photo, but never gets around to replying to the letter.

* * *

_Posted 9/23/12_


	2. The American Pastime

**Two or three years prior to the start of the show (what lead to the chair incident)**

Tino's mother, barefoot, in jeans and a no-frills V-neck blouse, comes down stairs, carrying the cordless phone in her hand. She ducks her head into the den, then moves down the hallway, spotting her fourteen-year-old only child sprawled on the sofa in the TV room, reading _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_. The thirty-six-year-old flight attendant enters the room, to which he gives no more notice than an arched eyebrow, continuing instead with his book. Once beside the couch she drops one of her mother's flowered cushions to the ground and plops down it its place, waiting for her son to acknowledge her. Taking longer than may have been appropriate, Tino finally closes his book, marking his page by keeping his index finger in place, and rests it on his chest, looking at his mother in serene expectation, awaiting whatever she's come to say.

Looking at her son through lowered lids and raised brows, Tino's mother channels Ricky Ricardo, "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do." His expressionless demeanor never altering, Tino lifts only his brows in response – _which thing is it_? Noting this, she continues, "I got a call from Coach Nolan…"

_Is that all? _Playing it cool, "Yeah?"

Soberly getting to the point, "Did you quit baseball?"

Tino and his mother enjoyed the absence of formality in their household. If their family of two had an official language it would be irony. His primary mode of expressing his love for her was teasing her relentlessly. No one made her laugh like Tino did, and she liked that from so early on he had always been his own person. So when he answers in a mocking tone shaded with apathy, it isn't that he's being disrespectful or withdrawn, he is being her son, who she loves like crazy. "That not allowed?"

Repositioning on the sofa, her feet resting now on his propped up legs; she gently prods him with her toes, trying to remind him of the long term. "Well, Pumpkin, how're you gonna make it to the major leagues if you quit now?"

Playing the concerned, newly informed citizen, "Turns out baseball leads to cancer of the lip and shrunken testicles," he emphasizes this by dropping his jaw in mock shock; "So, I'm 'just saying no'."

"Or, you could 'just say no' to dip and roids."

Feigning consideration and then dismissing this with a prim headshake, "I don't think that's an option."

Leaning forward, reaching out to him, she takes hold of his knee, "Seriously. Why?"

Lying on his back, absently knocking his raised knees together, "You're acting like it's the mob. When you're in you're in for life?"

"You love baseball."

"I can still _play_. I didn't turn in my arm."

Not letting him off the hook, "Explain."

Flatly, "I don't wanna be a jock."

"Fine. Tino, be who you want to be. Doesn't mean you can't be part of a team."

"Trophies? Banquets? Uniforms? It's all so stupid."

Playing devil's advocate, "But without a team, you ever gonna get enough people to play a game?"

Wry grin, "If I put a barrel on second base." He wags his eyebrows at her.

In irony, "Well as long as you don't lose your athleticism." She leans back again, and once more prods him with her foot. "Baseball kept you out of my hair," he feigns offense, "What's the plan now?"

Tino flashes her an understated grin, "Rock n' roll glory."

Conceding, "Naturally." Tino mimes the universal hand gestures and facial expression of a heavy metal fan. She chuckles.

* * *

Two months later, their bikes beside them, Tino and Jordan sit on the curb in the parking lot behind Louis', sharing a coke and a cigarette. The topic is baseball.

"I'm quitting." Jordan's said it decidedly. Tino shoots him a face. "What?"

"Nuthin'. Just - baseball's the one thing your dad likes about you."

Partly bitter, partly ambivalent, "He doesn't even really like that."

"True." There wasn't a really a point in denying it. Jordan absently lights a match. Tino smirks as he lightens the mood, leaning his head sideways, towards Jordan in orchestrated confidence, "It's the arm."

Jordan drops the dying match on Tino's foot. Defiant, "So, what's the difference?" On the team or not, could his father really like him much less? Jordan was fast approaching a tipping point with his father, and if he wasn't gonna succeed in getting him to like him, he was going to say 'fuck it' to all of it and throw it all on the fire, so to speak.

Taking a drag, Tino eyes his friend from the side, "How's he gonna take it?"

Relishing his insolence, "Don't care."

"You say that shit now." No one more than Tino, not even Jordan's seventeen-year-old half-sister Lisa, wanted to see Jordan out from under his father's thumb, but brazen bravado had been followed by bruises and worse before, and he questioned if his 'Anarchy Now' attitude wasn't doing his friend more harm than good.

Jordan shrugs it off, "Screw him."

Flicking the cigarette into a passing car, Tino lets out a fervent, "_Yeah!_" as he champions Catalano's resolve. Jordan's interactions with his father were always complex – one thing triggering something else, bringing up this and that - Jordan never saw it black or white. He just didn't. And that's why - at least in Tino's mind - Jordan never left with Lisa. When Lisa'd left the house the year before, she'd urged him to too. Tino'd offered up a room. And when she and her boyfriend got their own place, they'd each worked pretty hard to get him to accept their invitation. Still he stayed.

**Flashback:**

Jordan's half-sister comes to his middle school to find him during lunch. She sits atop a lunch table, swinging her boyfriend's car key around her index finger, scanning the crowd for her brother.

"Jordan." Jordan hears his name, stops, looks around, spots her, and briskly crosses the courtyard to her.

"Where've you been?" Lisa hadn't been home for three nights. He was pretty sure she'd left, and he'd been waiting to hear from her.

"Heather's."

Squinting in the sunlight, "You coming back?"

She looks at him. "No."

"You're telling me now?"

"Sorry." He looks away. "It just, happened."

"Bullshit." He isn't angry, but he knows it didn't 'just happen'. Jordan isn't scornful, he's - solemn.

She says this as emphatically as she can, "You don't have to stay." Jordan rolls his eyes. "You don't."

He scoffs; "What? Crash at Heather's?"

"There's Tino's. Ben's maybe?"

"I'm not moving in with your boyfriend. _ Are you?"

Jordan's sixteen-year-old sister, who's always been smart, resourceful, is not entirely confident what she'll do. What she does know, and what she says as calmly and clearly as she's ever said anything in her life, is: "I'm not going back." She sees her thirteen-year-old brother, for so long seeming older than he is, "I don't want to leave you there."

Jordan's shut down, coolly brushing off her concern, "I'm fine."

"J-"

Pushing past her appeal, "So, what's the plan?"

"Heather's; until-"

He cuts her off, coming off as world-wearied and cynical, "Her parents kick you out-"

"And _then_, find a place with Kristen."

Sardonic, "With _Kristen_? _ And when it doesn't work?"

"Jordan, you can't stay 'cuz you're afraid."

Exhaling, "Don't give me that. _ Afraid of what?"

She's reaching – she doesn't know if this is what it is, "Leaving, and then having one day to go back. That's not a reason to stay. _ Tino's mom will take you." He knew this was true. She'd do it in a heartbeat. It was actually her parents' house they all lived in, but Tino's grandparents liked him alright, but, that wasn't the point.

"Maybe I don't need somebody to 'take' me."

"Jordan, he's not going to get better; it's never going to change."

"Yeah, wull -" he loses steam, she waits; she knows there's nothing he can come up with to finish that sentence. "Ya want the rest of your stuff?"

... ... ...

Ten months later, Lisa and Ben are at a burger stand with Jordan. As Jordan eats, Ben sets down his drink, and glances at Lisa before continuing, "Hey, Catalano, so, Lis and I, we figured you could move in, now that we got the place."

"What?"

Lisa entreats him, "Move in. It's time. _ J."

"What, change schools?"

She nods. "Yeah. _ And your job." She watches him; she really wants him to say yes.

"I don't have the rent."

"We got it covered, Man. It's not like that."

"What, you gonna be my legal guardians?"

"You think anyone cares about that?" she asks doubtfully.

"If I get in trouble they will."

Ben chucks a crumpled paper wrapper at him, "Well, good reason for you to stay out of trouble."

Jordan bites his thumbnail, looking at them watching him. "I can't do it."

Lisa refuses to accept this, "Why."

"Cuz—"

"That's not an answer." She'd been worried he'd be resistant.

"You don't want me around."

Ben tries to reason with, "Kid, -"

Jordan cuts him off, "Don't call me that." At home, Jordan was "Kid", or "Boy" most of the time... He did not like it.

Ben continues, making their case, "Jordan, listen - to - us: come - stay - with - us."

Giving him the brush off, "Thanks, Man."

"No; screw thank you's. Do it." Ben means it.

Jordan's hands are up, "But I'm good." Ben starts again to say something, but Lisa stops him.

"Here's your key. Use it." She drops it in Jordan's hand.

"Whenever."

Jordan's uncomfortable with their sincerity and earnestness. "I'm not a damn charity case."

She rolls her eyes, "Yeah, we got it."

... ... ...

Three days later, Ben, 17-years-old, pulls up in his pickup truck beside Jordan who's just gotten out of school and is walking down the sidewalk outside his junior high. Ben starts to call out to him, "Hey, Ki—"

"Don't do it," Jordan warns with a glower, though he isn't really bothered.

"Jordan," Ben nods his head towards his car, "get in the car." Jordan stops, slouches, swings his bag off his shoulder, and rounds the truck and gets in. Ben shifts gears and drives off. Jordan waits, then speaks a little coolly, but not jaded.

"So, what's up?" Feigning Ben's excuse, "You 'in the neighborhood'?"

Ben takes a sideways glance in Jordan's direction; "How long we known each other?"

"Couple years?" Lisa and Ben had been seriously together for longer than anyone they knew. Maybe twice as long as anybody else they knew.

"We cool?"

Jordan considers, "Yeah."

"So, then, what's the deal? Why aren't you movin' in?"

Jordan sighs, and turns to look Ben straight on, "She send you?"

"No. _ No. So, explain." Jordan shrugs. "_ Look, if not with us, somewhere else. Take my room at my mom's. Go to Tino's." He stops at a red light.

Jordan fidgets with the air vent, sounding a little bored, "It's fine…" Ben cocks his eyebrow. "Look, it gets bad, I crash somewhere else. It blows over, I go back."

"What I'm sayin' is, you don't need to be there at all."

Defiant, "It's my house too. _ If I leave, what does that say?"

Ben takes a moment before he responds, speaking slowly and with purpose, "It says he's an a-hole who lost both his kids - deservedly."

"I think it says 'he won'. He doesn't want me around? Too bad. He had me, now he has me." Ben doesn't know what to say. He takes another sideways glance at Jordan.

"Ya wanna drive?" Jordan's scowl dissolves.

**End flashback:**

Tino'd never say Jordan loved his father, but something, more than just his stubborn defiance, kept Jordan in that empty house with him. Now something had changed. Quitting baseball for Jordan Catalano wasn't just quitting baseball. Jordan's old man, at one point had played in the minor leagues in Texas; he mighta' been called up if he hadn't killed his knee in the war. Obviously it wasn't as simple as that: baseball dreams dashed = heartless bastard beating his kid. Obviously. There was so much more to it all than a bum knee. But aside from everything, baseball had been a stand in for Jordan and his dad. A common thing, tenuously tying them to each other. And Jordan was quitting.

When he speaks, he means much more than baseball. "It's enough."

"You know it."

Choosing now to be cavalier, "So I don't play ball."

Flippant, Tino follows his cue, "He'd never love you anyway." Jordan laughs. Tino continues, speaking in headlines like a sports commentator. "'Catalano Kid quits ball'." He chuckles. "Love it."

"'Old man loses his mind.'"

"'Papa C finds new use for bat.'"

"'Father of the Year goes to Silver Slugger.'" Nothing about it's funny, but, what else is there to say? They push on.

Tino's nose crinkles in a definitive nod. "That's what I always say: 'Sadistic socio-path? Give 'im a medal, he'll go away.'" Mimicking a mother, "'He just wanted attention.'" Jordan laughs.

* * *

_Posted 9/2/12_


	3. This Wasn't Anything

**Set before the series; before Cynthia Hargrove. This is one of a couple of small moments that serve as the 'origin story' for the Jordan Catalano we see in the series - at least in terms of his interactions with the opposite sex.**

* * *

**Jordan's already lost his virginity, and actually already had several partners, but as of yet, he's never had a partner – a single partner to be with, and is mostly still just fooling around with girls rather than sleeping with them. His encounters are scrambled, and at this point, he's kind of in for what he can get.**

Newly sixteen-year-old Jordan is standing in the parking lot, leaning against his car; Shane, Joey and Laurence are there with him, talking and hanging out. Soon they break away, and Joey heads off on his own and Laurence goes with Shane to Shane's car. Jordan remains, squeezing eye drops into first his left and then his right eye. Amber Stapleton approaches him, though he doesn't realize anyone's there until she speaks.

"Jordan?" Her voice is smooth and confident. This girl is always poised.

"Yeah," Jordan grunts. He turns, sees who it is, and instantaneously his tone changes; on comes the charm, and the eyelash flutter, "Hey." He's never spoken to her before, but he knows who she is. Gorgeous to start.

Amber Stapleton – well, she was just that, a staple of the school. She was a cheerleader, on the Associated Student Body, honors classes – if there was a scene worth making, she was at the center of it. Amber was beautiful. All her friends were beautiful. And she had money. Not obscene money, but more than most of the people Jordan knew. If you weren't part of her crowd, she didn't speak to you, she spoke down to you. She behaved this way because she was allowed to behave this way. In fact, she had been trained to behave this way. People always treated her differently because of her face and her perfectly shiny hair, so by the time she was sixteen, she really expected nothing different.

"Amber."

He nods, "Right."

"Friday night?" She briefly pauses for effect, "I want to see you at Tasso's party." Confirming in a way that, doesn't quiet leave room for '_No_', she asks, "You're going?"

"I'm going." He doesn't know exactly where this is leading, and he's never talked to a girl quite like this, but he's had enough experience with girls that he already knows to play it cool. An economy of language is part of that.

She gets to the point, "I'll be there by nine. Actually, more like ten." Jordan waits to see if there is more, then smiles at her. The corners of her mouth do nothing. She turns and walks away.

* * *

At Tasso's party, Jordan stands near the edge of the kitchen. Detached, he's observing the room, thinking about if what Shane had said would turn out to be true-

"You're here." His thoughts are interrupted by Amber's appearance. As she stands there beside him amidst the drinking and carousing nothing alters in her self-serving business like demeanor.

He smiles at her. Leaning in, but only by a fraction, and making the most of those eyes, he asks, "Want a beer?"

She tugs ever so slightly on his sleeve, and pulls him to the kitchen island, "Come take shots."

…

Several vodka shots later, Jordan's standing with Amber in the slightly-secluded-from-the-rest-of-the-kitchen breakfast nook. He is standing close to her, but not too close, he's letting it breath. And really, he doesn't know if this is going anywhere. She takes another shot, deftly wipes her lower lip in a way that draws his attention to it, and to the berry plumpness of her mouth in general, and asks, "Did you go to the game?"

Jordan's left confused, "What game?"

"The football game."

The thought of that is kind of funny to him, he smiles, "No." Jordan squints at her, "Why? Did you?"

She's never had to say this before, "… I'm a _cheerleader_."

"Oh; right."

She looks at him, studying him for half a second, then laughs, "So, it's really not an act?" He smiles at her dumbly, an early version of the smile that, with a little more experience and practice, is to come -– the one that melts hearts, and resolves. He does not get her meaning, but Jordan already knows, especially with girls, and women, you can usually smile your way through it, "What?"

Amber is amused, but blunt, "You're really that oblivious."

She's lost him, "Huh?"

Dryly, she acknowledges the perfectness of his response: "Cute." Running her manicured fingers through her blown out hair, she flips it artfully to the side and hands one last shot to Jordan and takes one more herself. Turning the glass face down on the table once she's drunk it, Amber Stapleton says decidedly, "Okay." She turns to him and kisses him. He's a little surprised, but he goes with it.

When eventually she pulls away for a drink, he asks, "What's this about?"

Biting into a lime, the response she gives him is she is direct and unmitigated, "You're cute." Throwing down the peel she adds, "And, I broke up with my boyfriend. Kind of."

"And?"

"And you've got a car here, right?" He nods. She pulls him after her towards the door.

...

_Afterwards_, in the backseat of his car, Jordan watches Amber pulling on her top. He'd never done this, like this before. Never in his car, never with a stranger, not all the way. He sits there, replaying what just transpired, and appreciating the view, but he looks away before she catches him. He lights a cigarette for an excuse to be doing something. She tosses his t-shirt at him. Then leaning in closer, she coolly looks him in the eye, and takes a drag from his cigarette. Exhaling, she runs her fingers up through the roots of her hair to detousle it. "You going back in?" Jordan notices she does this thing where she doesn't look at him when she speaks to him. He isn't sure if he minds.

"Doubt it." He hands her the cigarette while he pulls on his tee shirt then bunches his flannel and tosses it up to the passenger seat. Making the effort to be friendly and decent Jordan asks, "You need a ride or anything?"

Again she emits a small laugh. _Had that been funny?_ "No; I'm good." What doesn't occur to Jordan is that he's not supposed to go back inside that party. He's not supposed to give her a ride anywhere. She isn't there with him. She grabs her bag and pushes forward the passenger seat to open the door and climb out. Once outside the car she readjusts her skirt, then turns and ducks her head back inside, "So, we'll do this again."

Jordan nods, "Sure." She laughs again; it wasn't a question.

She walks away. Though still confused, a slow grin spreads cross Jordan's face. _He does not understand girls._

* * *

Within the weeks that follow, Amber and Jordan talk secretly by the school's back entrance. "Boiler room?" He's moving in close, pressing himself into her space, leaning his weight against the hand he's placed a little above her head. While still a kid in many ways, and largely still inexperienced, Jordan does know this works. The other person - the girl - isn't going to face off with you, so they let you in. Press a boundary, in the right way, they'll succumb. This means close proximity, staring at lips, unblinking eyes beneath bashful lashes, and pith.

Though now putting it to use, Jordan had been 'flirting' for years. He flirted with friends' mothers for dinner, flirted with teachers to be forgiven a blank stare, he flirted with store clerks and office aides and anyone who could get him something he needed. Or wanted. Jordan was not, in any sense, a golden child like Tino - the world did not kowtow to him and make exception upon exception for his benefit - but he had learned, maybe, in part, from his father, that blue eyes, batting lashes and a vague if winning smile could produce results. He wasn't exactly sure if this was true when it came to Amber, but she seemed responsive enough. She was sleeping with him after all. Somewhat regularly. Or, a handful of times.

She laughs at him a little, "Jordan." She has this way, of saying his name like he's a child, which, he does not love, "I don't do the boiler room."

Blithely persisting, he continues through the litany of venues, "Bleachers? _ Parking lot? Orchestra pit?"

"ASB supply closet," she retorts.

Jordan laughs, "The what?"

Jordan does not know what the ASB supply closet is, because he does not know what ASB is; the organization with the most presence on campus, and he doesn't know what it is, much less anybody in it. He'd never seen the supply closet, because no one he'd been with prior to this had ever seen inside it. Much less cared to. She continues, "Meet me after, tonight?"

Still focussed on her lips he asks, "After what?"

"Christine Peterson's party." She adds flatly, "I'm going."

Jordan moves just slightly closer, "I can do parties."

Again she laughs, "We're not dating."

Jordan, who'd up to now taken her dismissive attitude in stride, now pauses, straightens up a bit, shifts his weight, and studies her. "Why are you doing this?" He'd never asked her why she had sought him out, why he hadn't had to work at all, but now, with her muted disdain only thinly veiled, he wanted to know: What was she about? Jordan didn't see her as out of his league, a different team for sure, maybe different rules, but he was not asking himself, '_Why me?_'

She answers as though it's obvious, like she's already said it several times over, "You're cute. And I'm bored." Amber flips her hair. And adds dispassionately, "I'm tired of swapping the same boys back and forth between my friends. And," she pauses, "my boyfriend hates you."

Equally dispassionate in his answer, if only a little curious, Jordan asks, "Isn't there supposed to be an 'ex' in there somewhere?" But he does not wait on an answer; Jordan once again leans in and kisses her. A few times.

"There is; sometimes."

Jordan hovers before her parted, waiting lips, "I'm not interested in, whatever you're doing."

"Maybe not-" She pulls him to her and kisses him, lingering on his lower lip, "But you are enjoying it."

He pulls back once more, "Why?" Jordan clarifies, "Why does he hate me?"

"Aside the obvious?" she chuckles, though it is not made clear what the 'obvious' part is. Amber flips her hair and does not attempt to mask her boredom, "I don't know." She moves on, back to her point; Amber kisses him lightly and asks, "Should I look for you or not?"

"I'm not getting in a fight over this."

"That'd be really boring anyway."

He looks at her, again trying the figure her out, "Would it?"

Still detached and blasé as hell, Amber, for the first time, authentically asks him something, "Out of curiosity, what would you get in a fight over?"

* * *

During her lunch period the following week, Jordan and Amber are parked in the student lot, making out in his car. She pulls away, fixing her hair while Jordan continues to kiss her neck and face, not realizing that she's totally checked out. She tolerates it for a little longer, popping a piece of gum in her mouth.

Jordan pulls back, "What's up?"

"I'm done."

"Okay…" He straightens up, retreating to his side, "So, next week?"

"No; I'm done." Indifferently she reapplies her lipgloss, "This is over."

"Just like that?" Jordan isn't hurt. He couldn't be. He doesn't like her. He doesn't know her well enough to like her. But as per usual, Jordan's playing catchup, and trying to figure out the people with whom he interacts.

"Dummy," her words are as light and airy as ever, "this wasn't anything." She's not mean, she's detached; this hasn't cost her anything.

Damned if he'll put up a fight over it, Jordan lets it go, "Fine." He feels compelled though to point out, "You were having a good time."

"That doesn't make you special." She peers into his rearview mirror to brush a clump from her mascaraed lashes; "Being mildly skilled in the backseat of a car," she touches up her lips with her pinky, "doesn't make you anybody." Amber grabs her bag, reaches for the door, then, without being cold or predictable, pauses to clarify, "Listen, I'm going back to my friends; you don't know me."

"Who do you think you are?" Jordan's not indignant, he guesses she can end it this way if she wants to, but he's never seen anyone behave quite this way before.

With one final hair flip she opens the door, "Someone who really _doesn't_ care who _you_ are."

* * *

A year later, after the 'Sophomore List' has been passed around, Jordan's stopped Casey Hall in the hallway, and stands at the base of the north stairwell, chatting her up. Only momentarily deterred after being spotted by Angela Chase - _who ever knew what she wanted_ - Jordan smiles, chats, and leans.

Casey Hall, while used to guys' attention, is fairly shy. Not shy, exactly, but quiet, soft spoken, and understated in her demeanor and mannerisms. She laughs at Jordan's jokes, tucks her hair behind an ear to break eye contact, and as she smiles at him, Jordan finds himself a little surprised as he considers that he _might_ actually like this girl, beyond her placement on the list.

As she rounds the corner, Amber Stapleton takes them in. She stops, "Casey. No."

Jordan looks over towards her, he hasn't seen her for ages. She's still dictating the terms of living for everyone around her. His eyes narrow by a fraction. Amber just stands, sporting a slightly sour expression, waiting for her friend to extricate herself from this socially unacceptable situation.

Casey tucks her hair, and greets her friend, "Hey Am."

Amber is not deterred. "What are you doing?" Casey smiles a smile she uses to please other people. _What is she supposed to say?_

Jordan speaks up, "Hey, Amber." He's getting a kick out of taunting her; he knows how much it's pissing her off to see him talking to her friend.

Amber makes a face, "Nobody's talking to you."

"Well, I think your friend is."

Looking right past Jordan Amber turns her attention to Casey. "Are you coming?" Casey half smiles to Jordan, tucks her hair, and moves down the stairs to Amber. As Casey starts past her down the hall Amber turns to follow, but then turns back to Jordan. "What're you doing?"

"What?"

"You suddenly decide to talk to her _this_ week?"

"Jealous?" Her eyes narrow. Jordan can't help himself, "Ever think you mighta made that list if you weren't such a-"

She cuts him off, "You are such a waste of space." She adds as she turns down the hallway, "And wash your hair."

* * *

Several months into dating Jordan, Angela exits the girls' bathroom with Sharon and one of Sharon's friends from newspaper, who is dressed in her cheerleader uniform. The three girls proceed down the hallway talking and smiling. Crossing the hall from the other direction is Jordan Catalano and Shane Trudenowski. The boys do not stop, but as Jordan passes by he winks at Angela. Angela smiles and continues on with her friends.

Witness to this, also in her cheer uniform, is Amber Stapleton, who had paused mid-conversation as she took in this exchange. Mulling over the possible implications of these different worlds converging, she watches after Angela and the other girls as they head towards the social sciences wing. Although she returns to what it had been she was saying she cannot let this less-than-an-incident go, and she's talking now without having resumed eye contact with her friends, her eyes and thoughts instead following that inconvenient trio.

...

After lunch, Amber and Angela are seated in their history class. Mr. Rinaldi has broken the class into pairs and Angela has taken her notebook and pen and is moving her desk to face Amber's. Angela smiles slightly as she takes her seat; poised with impenetrable banality Amber asks coolly, "Angela, right?"

In response Angela's answer is terse, "Yeah. Rinaldi just said it when he paired us. _ And, we've been going to school together, for, forever."

Completely unfazed, Amber responds in dry irony, "Wow. Didn't know it was so important to you." Angela raises her brows at this unveiled sense of superiority and then looks away. She begins her work but Amber only sits watching her. Momentarily she speaks, baiting in the guise of sharing, "I know your boyfriend."

Without looking up Angela draws out her words, "That's because he's not invisible." Amber's surprised by this level of sass, it's not something she's accustomed to. Angela is a bit surprised herself; she isn't usually this sassy. Not with strangers. Not with people like Amber Stapleton. But dating Jordan Catalano, who - though collectively _in_ school considerably less than she - boasts a much higher profile on campus, somehow seems to have granted the general public leave to commentate on her relationship. Which in turn gave her leave to sass.

Amber bites her pen, monitoring Angela's reaction as she adds breezily, "Or maybe it's because I used to sleep with him." Amber pauses for a moment, looking for a reaction.

Angela, just as airily, does not look up from her task, "I bet you get to say that to a lot of girls."

Through a fixed smile Amber comes back with, "I'm not the one with 'a lot of girls.'"

Angela lays her pen down and temporarily gives Amber her attention, "What is your point?"

Relishing that she finally has Angela's focus, Amber plays it cool, taking her time, looking Angela over and drawing out her words so as to seemingly convey thoughtful patronage, "You're kind of pretty; you could do better." If Jordan had moved from untouchables like Cynthia Hargrove and Rayanne Graff, to someone like this girl, who had - some - legitimate social ties, to the cheer squad no less, she wasn't going to risk anything getting out. _What did she see in him anyway?_

"I'm sorry?"

"He's not a good guy."

To Angela, this conversation is unreal. _What concern is any of this to someone like Amber Stapleton?_ Without confrontation, Angela picks up her pen and returns to her work, "Actually, he is…"

She hadn't always been sure of this. She thinks she is now. She isn't going to be told what to think. And someone who so clearly has it out for him isn't going to get far influencing her opinion on him.

Angela's eyes roll; there are some times when high school is even stupider than she thought.

* * *

_*Posted 9/9/12_


	4. Happy Birthday to Us!

**(These may be split in two separate chapters later)**

* * *

**About a year before the start of the show**

Nancy Mourlot, carrying a sack of groceries, walks through her back door and into her kitchen where her sixteen-year-old son and his best friend sit sniggering at something. Looking up, Tino sing-songs, "Hey Mommy."

Dropping her bag and purse on the counter, she kicks off her shoes, "Hellooo."

With deliberation, Tino leans bag in his chair, props op his feet, and looks at her as he taunts, "We found something." Whatever it is, he can hardly contain himself. Jordan too is grinning.

Not as easily intrigued as her son, she begins unpacking the produce, "What's that?" Jordan, a wry grin across his face, silently waves some old photos back and forth. When she recognizes them, she tilts her, "Oh Lord."

Unable to hold it in any longer, Tino lets loose with, "Nice skirt." In Jordan's hands are several photographs of Nancy's early years as a flight attendant, or stewardess. There are ridiculous colors, mini skirts, daisy dukes, knee high boots, and one really unfortunate hat. Tino is enraptured.

She doesn't have a lot to defend herself with in this case, so she merely adds, in her driest tone, "There were shorts too."

Jordan teasingly flirts, "You still have those boots?"

She's putting an end to this, "Okay."

Jordan's totally bemused, "They made you work in that?"

"It was the '70's," she lightly shoves Jordan's forehead and then takes the snapshots from him, "not an era remembered for high style."

"Or class," Tino chimes in as she walks down the hallway. Rising, he follows her to the door frame where he leans against it, calling after her, querying as if an innocent child, "Mummy?"

Equally exaggerated, "Yes Pumpkin?"

"Can I someday have a job that sexually exploits me while dressing me in Technicolor melon tones?"

Calling back to them from down the hallway, "Jordan? When did this beloved child of mine become such a smartass?" Returning back to the kitchen after having tucked away the pictures, "A child, whom, one might remember I've supported all these years _because _of this job?"

Jordan plays along, "Dunno," a nefarious grin on his face, "but…"

Tino cuts him off in mock panic, "Shhhhhh! "

Still playing, wanting to hear what Jordan was going to say, she waits, "Ye-es?"

Jordan continues, thoroughly getting a kick out of throwing his buddy onto the proverbial tracks, all the while knowing full well that nothing truly severe will come from it, "He _did_ spend some of that skirt money onnn…" he drags it out, chuckling-

Tino interrupts again, feigning the distress of a finicky Sunday school teacher, "No! No! No!"

Waiting, "Yes?"

Jordan starts again, "On…"

"No!" Tino entreats Jordan as if his mother was not clearly two feet away, witness to it all, "Never tell the maternal one anything!"

Using her mom clout, Nancy – still good natured - crosses her arms, pops a hip, tilts her head, and says, "Now, Jordan Catalano, you better tell me what this punk," Tino mimes a punk rock face and hand gesture in the background, "is hiding from me." Jordan's laughing at the mock chaos he's created. She continues, now earnestly, "Alcohol?"

Tino's offended by her lack of originality, "Mother."

"Cigarettes? Did'ya go out and buy yourself a little cancer?"

"'Cancer,'" Jordan scoffs.

Smacking him in the back of the head, "Yeah, cancer. It's a terrible habit and I KNOW it was you who first smoked with him." Called out, Jordan swallows his grin.

"But do you know who I first SMOKED with?" Tino queries.

Losing her patience with his cavalier attitude towards substance use, but still maternal, "Tino - shut up. And do not take drugs." She tosses each of them an apple and then peels her apple with a knife in one slice. "Okay, fess up, what'd you spend Mommy's money on?"

"You do know your child works, don't you? _And_ Catalano," he reminds her.

Beckoning for them to come out with it already, "The big purchase?"

Jordan glances at Tino to check if it's cool, then produces something from his shirt pocket and waves it in his hand.

"No. You didn't."

"Happy birthday to us," Tino boasts. The boys grin as she walks to Jordan and pulls the two IDs from his hand.

"You don't need these."

Tino teases her, making his hands scales, "'Need' 'Want.'"

In earnest, "If I take these away?"

Jordan admits, "Others will follow."

More serious than she's been this entire time, "Now listen to me. I love you both. You will be safe. You WILL NOT drink to excess and make yourselves sick. There will be no black outs. You will not drink and then operate anything more advanced than a bicycle. You will make wise, thoughtful, deliberate choices, weighing the consequences of all of your decisions. You will not put yourselves, or others in harm's way. You will be gentlemen with the ladies. You will always, always, always use a condom. And there will be no recreational or any other kind of drug use. Ecstasy will shrink your brain and give you a heart attack. No pills, no tablets, no powders. You DO NOT know what is in them." She looks at them. "Do you hear me?" They nod. "No, speak up. I mean it. I need to know that you actually agree to this, or by God I will find another job and will be here every night to watch you two. Jordan?"

"Okay. "

Turning to her son, "Tino?"

"Okay."

She continues, "No blood alcohol poisoning; no drug use, no DUIs, no diseases, no babies, no crying girls. Yes?"

Jordan nods. "Yes."

Tino follows suit, "Yes."

Feeling better about it, she relaxes a bit, not so stern now, "Alright then. Take these pitiful things." She leaves the IDs on the kitchen counter and heads upstairs with her apple.

Without irony, "I love you Mommy."

* * *

**In between the "Pilot" and "Other People's Mothers" (probably closer to the pilot)**

Tino's in the bathroom shaving; his mother stops by, standing in the doorway. "What's up, Tiger Lily?"

Meaning the shaving, "You doing that everyday?"

Tino dunks his razor in water to rinse the blade, then continues, stretching his jaw upwards as he does, "Yup."

Curious, "You need to?"

Being honest, "Maybe not."

Moving on, "So listen-"

"Uh, oh."

She stops. "What?"

Chuckling, "I dunno; you got that 'Mama's checkin' in' look about you."

"I am checking in. How ya doin' Puppy?"

Eyeing her through the mirror, not knowing where this is going, "Good…"

"Yeah?" Feigning bewilderment as she continues, "There a reason your grandmother's flowerbeds are trampled?" Tino cocks an eyebrow.

Time to level, "Kid?"

Not exactly sheepishly, he concedes, "Mighta had some associates over." Mock innocence, "Problem?"

"How many?"

Preoccupied with his shaving, "How many 'what'?"

"How many people were trampling through my house?" He shrugs. "Tino."

"I really don't know. _ Does it make you feel better to know that I locked the doors to upstairs?" He looks at her, then continues shaving before he drops the "Every time." Incredulous that she's that naive, "You _know_ there's been more than one."

"I don't want you throwing parties here."

Shaking his head, Tino's sorry to tell her this, but, "I don't think that's realistic."

She means to be heard, "Boy."

Continuing with his '_it's out of my hands_' defense, "Ma; you gotta either live with the reality of the demands of an adolescent social life, or you gotta ground yourself to be here 24/7."

His mom does a head jerk towards the hall. "Wash your face, put a shirt on and come talk with me."

…

"I'm here."

She speaks with deliberation, she means to make an impact. "Listen, screw eighteen, my goal, as a mother, is to see you live to at least eighty." Tino makes a face of bemused impressment. "How is that going to happen if you keep partying like Sid Vicious?"

"Actually, J's Sid, I'm Nancy."

Dryly, "You're cute." He grins at her. "Ever think who gets held responsible if something goes wrong at one of these things?" She kind of has his attention. "Dear old Mommy. Or, your grandparents - it's still their house. Want to see your grandsires dragged into court?"

"Who are you, _Scared Straight_?"

"Am I getting' through?" She grabs him and hugs him tightly in a good natured squeeze, digging her chin into the top of his head. "Listen," still not easing up on the squeeze though by now he's trying to let himself loose, "you're the smartest kid I know, and if you're not putting that to work in school, can you at least not get yourself, or any of your friends killed?"

Exaggerating like it's really asking a lot, "Okay…"

Still holding him fast so she can make her last point, "No more parties?"

Tino complies, "No more parties - _here_." Figuring this is the best she can do, she kisses the side of his head and releases him. But before he's actually out of her reach she grabs hold his wrist and holds him there. "What?"

Looking at him, "The bottles, in the yard and in the bushes-" Tino looks sheepish. "The ones you said the neighbors were throwing over the fence." Tino tries to pull away. "That's from the parties?"

Twisting his wrist and successfully escaping her grasp, he grins at her, "Made $285 in recycling." He wags his eyebrows at her and ducks out of the room.

* * *

_Posted 9/4/12_


	5. Not in the mood, to be treated like dirt

**Before the start of the series; Jordan switching from remedial English to college prep.**

* * *

Jordan's sitting in his kitchen eating scrambled eggs. He looks up when the door opens. His father enters, moving through the living room and into the kitchen without casting a glance in Jordan's direction. Jordan watches him, waiting to see what he has to say. When he doesn't say anything, and instead rifles through a kitchen cabinet for a pack of cigarettes, Jordan speaks up, "Hey." Jeff grunts at him as he lights his cigarette. Jordan's eyes don't stop following him, "Where've you been."

Jeff exhales, "Don't worry about it." Feeling Jordan waiting as he pours himself a cup of coffee he turns on him, "What?"

"It's been a week," Jordan dully points out.

His father turns to him, taking a long drink, "And?" Jordan just looks at him. "_What?_"

Jordan looses his steam, "Nothin'."

Staring down his son, Jeff, with pointed rhetoric, queries, "Did I miss all those calls when you stay out all night?" Jordan doesn't answer and Jeff isn't surprised. Tapping his ashes into a dirty mug he remarks, "Kid, you look okay."

"Right," Jordan nods dryly.

Getting that Jordan's bitterness has not lessened, he looks around the kitchen to make a point, "The house burn down or something?" Jordan looks around to point out, _'clearly no.'_" Feeling that his point's been made he turns towards his bedroom, but Jordan calls after him.

"The school was trying to get ahold of you."

"Why?"

"'Cuz," Jordan mumbles, "I need to change my schedule, and they need parent permission for that."

"You fail another class?"

"No."

Jeff walks back into the room, "God, Boy, how much longer you gonna be going to that place. They're gonna start charging me soon."

Irritated, Jordan points out, "It's a public school."

Jeff's not only sleep-deprived he's tired of getting flack from his over-sensitive kid, "I know." He finishes his coffee, "My point is, you been there so long - I don't pay that much in taxes to keep you there forever."

Jordan doesn't find his father funny. "Wilson wants you to call him."

"You're eighteen, can't you do this yourself?"

Jordan's irritated, but not surprised to have to correct him, "Seventeen. And they need you." He scoffs; the fact that he has to rely on his dad is kind of a joke to Jordan.

Jeff looks at him, flicks his butt into the kitchen sink, then grabs a scratch sheet of paper, scrawls his signature on it, and passes it to Jordan, "Here." On his way out Jeff grabs a beer and pops it open.

"Great," Jordan grumbles.

* * *

At school the next day, Jordan knocks on the door jam of the open door to the AP's office.

Associate Principal Wilson looks up from his computer, "Hey Kid."

Still lingering in the doorway, Jordan kind of glowers at him. "What?"

Wilson's unfazed by Jordan's moodiness; "Just saying 'hi'."

Moving just slightly further into the room Jordan shoot him a look, "Yeah, well, I gotta name."

Registering his sulkiness, but staying upbeat, Wilson drums the desk, "Jordan, what's going on?" Jordan drops a crumpled paper on the desk then backs away a little. Wilson looks down at the paper then up at Jordan, "What's this." Jordan gestures for him to open it. After glancing once more at Jordan, he does. "What is this?"

"Signature for the schedule switch."

"Oh."

"You're not gonna get it on an official form."

"So, you doubting my ability to charm and disarm surly parents?" Jordan's eyebrows raise, to which Wilson purses his lips and waves the paper once with a slight twist in the wrist, "I'll see what we can do with this."

Mildly bitter Jordan raises the question, "Why do you even need a signature if I'm moving up a level?"

Acknowledging that this is a good point, Wilson shrugs, "I don't know." Jordan heads out the door but Wilson calls him back, "Jordan." He turns back; Wilson lifts the paper, "I like that we're not adding forgery to your resume." Jordan obligingly lifts the sides of his mouth into the shape of a smile, then walks away.

* * *

_Posted 9/23/12_


	6. Stay away from drummers

_**Takes place early in the series (a portion of it spans "Why Jordan Can't Read"). Just kind of a glimpse into Jordan's life outside of the series — a closer look at some of his friends and maybe showing Jordan to be less of an all-around jerk than he seemed to be with Angela. (**__**This sets up a preexisting rift between Joey and Rich as seen in "On the Wagon.") [My timeline here between the scenes seems a little drawn out to me and I'll probably rework it a bit, but I didn't think it could all happen in a short span of time. Unless otherwise stated the line breaks indicate days passing.]**_

* * *

Lucy Pullman traverses the hallways of Liberty High School with little thought beyond her impending Spanish exam. The small, sandy blonde fresh-faced freshman is a good foot shorter than the upper classmen boys crowding the north hallway.

Walking with a friend she passes by a group of boys, among them Joey Cobb. He takes note of her, the lightly freckled ninth grader in a flowy almost-white light pink blouse, with large green eyes and cunning youthful figure. His eyes follow her down the hallway.

* * *

Days later, crossing to the back field parking lot — where he always parks as there's rarely campus security there to monitor any on-goings — Joey passes the girls' JV field hockey team, dressed and ready, waiting for boys' soccer to clear the field for their practice. There among the chattering girls is the one he'd noticed the other day. Still cute in her pony tail shin guards and knee socks. He decides to establish contact. "Hey!"

The whole team of girls turns his direction, but it's only Lucy he's looking at.

"You know what time it is?" Joey knows it doesn't matter what he asks or says, all he's doing is laying groundwork — showing her he's noticed her from the others. The payoff comes later.

The girls all look towards Lucy, some of them giggle. Lucy, who has a big brother and thus isn't particularly silly in the face of older boys, looks right at him. "It's almost three."

"Yeah? What if those guys," he means the soccer players, "'re late?"

"They usually are," she says dryly. "Then it's more like 3:07."

"Okay," he nods with a smile and starts to head off. But before he actually moves away he looks right at her again, "_You_ have a good practice."

As he heads down the gravel path towards his waiting car he hears the eruption of girl laughs and "oohing" he'd been banking on._ Mission accomplished._

* * *

Three days later, after fifth period passing but before the late bell for sixth, Shane and Joey head to the east wing of classrooms, moving away from the gym and the spectacle they'd been witness to.

"Man, who was that girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one cornering Catalano."

"Oh. Who f-in knows."

"She was at the loft last night."

"Yeah; the loft, the hallways, classroom, _Tino's_. Suddenly she's everywhere and nobody even knows her. Chick's decided she's in love with him."

"What's he doing about it?"

"Nuthin'. If he's smart. That one comes with all kinds of roadblocks 'nd fine print. Not. Worth. It." Shane drums against a locker with his ubiquitous drumsticks.

"_Yeah?_" Joey retorts. "Who're _you_ seeing? I don't see you not putting in any effort."

"Man, I was just with Nicole last night."

"Which Nicole? Malpee or Hendrix?"

"McHugh."

"Ohh!_ Well_, no effort necessary."

"Right," Shane nods simply.

"Gets old," Joey shakes his head. "No challenge."

"Pretty sure I'm not looking for a challenge," Joey swags. The boys laugh.

"Trude!" Shane turns and sees Nate at the other end of the hall calling him.

"Later, Man." Shane does a quick handshake thing with Joey and heads off in the same direction they'd been coming from. Joey continues on and then spots her, the freshman he's been watching. Jamming his hands in his pockets her ducks his head and approaches Lucy, giving her a head nod and flashing her an empty smile as he does. "How's it going."

A faint blush spreads across her face but she doesn't look away; "Good."

"Yeah?" he grins. His eyes travel down her person. "What're you up to?" She looks down, and swallows a giggle. He watches her. Through a smirk he asks, "What's so funny?" She has no answer. Beneath a self-satisfied cocked brow he checks her out, watching as she pushes back her hair. "What's your name?"

"Lucy."

"Yeah?" his eyes drift over her. (She can almost feel his gaze on her.) "So, I know you?"

"Um, you've been to my house." He hadn't expected that.

"What," he looks at her through squinted eyes, "you got a sister?"

"You're in my brother's band."

"It's _Tino's_ band," he corrects coolly. "Who's your brother?" Joey moves in, leaning one arm against the wall of lockers behind her head. She blinks.

"Rich."

Once more he pauses to check her out, much less subtly this time, starting from her face, traveling down and slowly back up again. "You adopted?" Lucy lets the backhanded compliment land and once more pushes the hair away from her face. He deliberately never looks away. "So, can I call you?"

"Do you want to?"

He bites his lower lip in anticipation, "You want me to?" Lucy says nothing. Joey straightens up and kind of wags his pointed index fingered at her with a bit of a swagger, "I'm gonna see you around."

* * *

Rich Pullman the wild-haired Frozen Embryos bassist stops and breaks away from his group of metal-head friends when he spots his kid sister coming his way. "Hey," he nods at her.

She stops. "Hey."

"How's it going?"

"Fine." She's been in high school for almost a couple months now and he's still checking up on her.

"You, meeting people?"

"Sure;" she kind of laughs at the over-protectiveness. At home Rich is always nice, a good brother, but they're not exactly friends. They've never shared friends or social lives, and it's strange to her now that he's been taking such an interest. They've always gotten along as equals, he hasn't played the big brother card in ages.

He's not detracted by her well-adjusted confidence and looks at her straight on. "You talkin' to Joey?"

"What?"

"You heard me. You know what I'm talking about."

She tilts her head and purses her lips. "No." He studies her to see if he can trust her. She looks at him, "_What_?"

Rich stands there, deliberating what to verbalize and what to worry about on his own. She's looking at him, practically daring him to tell her what to do, smiling that little kid smile of hers as she does. Rich blinks. "Nothing." _She's a smart kid, why get into it?_

* * *

The music behind the double heavy doors grows louder as she pushes one open. The boys of Frozen Embryos are mid song and two hours deep into practice; no one notices when the bassist's little sister enters the loft. Lucy paces a bit, wandering the length of the loft looking it over as she waits for the cacophony to end.

When it does end they move straight into something else, or at least Rich and the lead guitarist Tino do. The others call it quits and that's when she's noticed.

"Hey kid." Marco, who's over eighteen, tousles her hair as he moves past her to the outer hallway and stairwell. He's pulling a cigarette from its carton with his teeth as he exits, his electric guitar slung back across his shoulders. "Night," he calls back through gritted teeth. "I'm out."

Rich looks up. "Luce, what the hell. What're you doin' here?"

"Mom's downstairs, she's waiting for you."

"Wull, hold on, we're—"

Tino strikes his guitar decidedly, "Ah, get going already. J's gone already and Sampson just bailed." Lucy smiles as she gets that was a remark about Marco's long silken tresses. "How ya doin' lil' sis?" Tino nods at her. He paces a few steps as he plays a couple bars of Billy Idol for her benefit; meanwhile Joey silently rises from the drum kit and heads to the loft's mini-fridge. He pulls out two beers. And so armed he moves towards the spot where Lucy stands. As he's about to hand one off to her Rich unplugs his bass and crosses the room to intercept the beer.

"Thanks," he says pointedly, taking it from Joey's extended hand.

"No doubt," Joey covers, but he's looking at Lucy when he says it. He smiles at her. "Hey. Guess you weren't joking 'bout this guy." He drinks from his own can, his eyes still on her. "Still hard to swallow."

To make a point, Rich takes one drink from his claimed beer before setting it down. "Shut up." To his sister he says, "Come on. Tino: later." Tino nods a goodbye. Rich grabs his leather jacket, pushes his sister a little with the neck of his bass, "Grab that," meaning the guitar case, and ushers her out the loft.

"Have a good night," Joey says after them. It's all too clear to whom he was speaking.

As the loft door shuts heavily behind them Rich hears Tino: "Shut up."

* * *

The metal music raging from the garage is fairly standard in the Pullman house. Rich plays with two bands: the mostly alt-punk grunge one with Tino and the name that always reminds his little sister of _Jurassic Park_, and one much more thrash and hardcore he messes around with with his actual friends. If it's not his amps blasting it's his stereo blaring. When Lucy comes home with a friend the music overloading their senses is hard and loud and rough. It must be Stephen and Miles and Timo. Which is why when she steps into the garage she's surprised to find the Embryos in their stead, going at it like she didn't know they could. Rich is doing his thing, Marco's head banging like only someone with his hair can, and Tino's going outright berserk. Jordan Catalano's keeping the rhythm, breaking a sweat but as cool as always, and in the back, Joey's striking the drums like a death march on speed. The intensity and force with which he brings down every strike practically rocks the garage off its foundation. The veins in his strained muscles bulge each time he lifts and beats down. The sound is giving her a headache but the image is definitely impressive.

"Come on!" Lucy's friend shouts into her ear. "Lets's go!" Lucy nods, but not before she looks once more at Joey. Rich, whose entire face is covered covered by his coarse locks flying, doesn't even realize she's in there, but the blue eyed rhythm guitarist catches the look exchanged between their barely teenaged audience and their very — everything — drummer.

* * *

It's early on a Friday night and the crowd at Louie's is a mix between the younger kids who want to be out but know nowhere else to go, and the older ones who have no better place to pass the time before they head out to where they're ultimately going.

Jordan Catalano breaks and the multicolored pool balls explode across the felted surface. Two striped balls land in corner pockets.

"Hustler," Tino grumbles through a smile. Jordan wags his eyebrows at him and shoots again. The twelve makes it into the far side pocket. "God damnit."

"Relax," Jordan says through gritted teeth biting down on a toothpick. He lines up his next shot, aiming the nine ball at the left corner pocket and planning to knock Tino's six way off course in the execution.

Tino leans back against the table right beside where Jordan's lining up his shot. "So, you stood her up." Jordan doesn't answer, only narrows his eyes to see the shot clearer. "You just, didn't show?"

Jordan's focus remains undivided, "I know what you're doing..." He steadies his back hand.

Tino plays innocent, "All I'm saying is ya could'a been nice about it. You're the one who started it up." Jordan blows the shot, scratching the felt.

"Christ."

Tino sniggers, self-satisfied. Jordan straightens up and holding his cue upright turns and leans against the table. "I started nuthin'."

"Bull, and you know it. What'd she say? After?"

"Nothin'," he says flatly. Tino's not buying it. "She walked away."

"Maybe she's as smart as she looks," Tino kids and he prepares to even out the score. But as he does Jordan spots a group of younger girls moving through the room, among them one girl he recognizes; with the back of his hand Jordan double taps Tino's arm. Tino looks, then straightens up and turns. With barely any detectable movement Jordan's extended out his pool cue to block the girl's path.

"Hey. Lucy Pullman." Lucy turns and finds it's her brother's band mates. It was Tino who'd called her name and now he's seated atop the table edge, feet swinging over the side, repeatedly throwing his pool cue up an inch or so in the air just to catch it again as it falls. Lucy watches him do this, and though she's usually very comfortable around boys, she blushes slightly and smiles when her eyes meet Jordan's. The two boys take the blush in stride and Tino sets about chatting her up, "So, how you likin' high school?"

Lucy cocks her head to one side, "What do you want?" Jordan laughs.

"Brass tacks," Tino nods. "I can do that. Here goes—" but Jordan beats him to the punch.

"Don't mess around with Joey." Lucy did not see that coming.

Incredulous that these two would get involved in this her brows rise in disbelief; "_Really_?"

Tino answers. "We're just looking out for you, kid."

"He's _your_ friend," she points out.

"_We're_ not fourteen-year-old girls," Tino retorts. "He's a creep. He's our friend, but he's a creep. I woudn't let my mother around him."

"Go for someone your own age," Jordan dispassionately advises.

"Or younger," Tino throws out. "Shane's got a little bro."

"He's in eighth grade," she reminds them.

Tino shoots her a calculated finger point, "Exactly."

"I was just _in_ eighth grade; it doesn't mean the boys are nicer. Or less lethal." This time both guys laugh. "Did Rich tell you to talk to me?"

"No." Tino lightly swats her ankle with the end of the cue, "Consider it our good deed for the day."

Jordan nods at her, "You like 'im?"

Lucy bites at her lower lip, "I don't know…" she can't control her bashfulness around him. She breaks her eye contact from him and those emptily flirtatious lashes, glad he isn't one of Rich's better friends always hanging around the house. She isn't certain she does like Joey Cobb, but whether she does or does not, she could not tell Tino Mourlot, and definitely not Jordan Catalano. There's something about him, gorgeous of course, but he's... easy, conversational, familiar — it draws a person in; but at the same time he's distant and coolly closed off. She'd tell him anything he wanted, but there'd be no point — she's only a little kid to him and she knows it. And she's partly glad of it.

Jordan answers her with dry, absolute assurance: "He doesn't like you. Not actually."

Lucy swallows. "Thanks."

Jordan looks at her with dispassion, "Truth hurts."

"Better to know now," Tino rationalizes.

"Look, we're not being mean—"

"You're 'lookin' out'," she finishes for him.

Jordan laughs again, he definitely appreciates her worldly sassiness. "Yeah," he nods.

"Well," she says, meeting their eyes, "nothing's going on."

Tino makes a face. "Don't play dumb girl." He looks up to the ceiling for frustrated effect, "I don't know who it was who told girls to play the dumb card." He looks back at her, "There's nothing more annoying. Be _awesome_ Luce, don't be _dumb._"

"I'm not." Now she's frustrated, having to justify and re-explain herself, "He asked me how I was doing; I said 'fine'. That's it. That's all that happened. It wasn't anything."

"You smile?" Jordan's arched eyebrow acts as an accusation.

"I don't know."

"You laugh?" this time it's Tino.

She doesn't answer but Jordan nods knowingly. "_He_ thinks it's something."

Lucy's incredulous, "Because I_ smiled_?"

"Yeah." Jordan doesn't blink, and in truth finds a little pleasure telling her the way it is.

"So," her brow furrows, "you think any time a girl smiles at you, it means she wants you?"

Tino grins and nods slowly. "It does."

She laughs at them, "Who told you that?"

"Experience," Jordan snorts.

Tino reaches out and tugs her hair as they send her way, "Stay away from drummers."

* * *

The following Thursday the varsity girls field hockey players take the JV team out after a big win against a rival. They end up at a party at the house of a guy one of the senior girls is dating. At some point in the night Lucy runs into Joey.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How's your night?"

"It's okay."

"You guys celebrating something?"

"We beat Banning."

"Well, 'way to go'."

"We're going to playoffs."

"Pretty cool." He looks her over. Joey bites his lower lip, "Like to see you in action." He moves in and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Wanna..." his eyes travel as he rolls his tongue behind his lips, "take a walk?" She looks down. "Aw, com'on," he cajoles. "Take a little walk." Lucy lifts her head, smiles faintly, and nods.

"Okay."

* * *

The next day Jordan's hanging at the east stairwell landing with Shane, deliberating whether to go to the next period. He's leaning back against the wall while Shane borrows his Visine and squeezes the drops into his dry red eyes. Jordan'd gone to work and then crashed, but Shane had been out last night, late. Lucy Pullman passes by as she descends the stairs. If she sees them at all she looks right past them. Her head's cast down and she looks miserable. When he notices this Jordan straightens up, more alert, his eyes following her as she goes. Jordan hits Shane with the back of his hand to grab his attention. Shane catches sight of her stepping off the last step and turning the corner. Lucy seems to be trying to cover her face and steeling her expression against stronger emotions.

"What's that about?"

Shane glances at him, "You didn't hear? Word is," he hooks his thumb at his belt buckle to make his point, "she didn't pass her oral exam. 'C-'"

"What? Who?"

"Who do'ya think?" Shane tosses back the little plastic bottle; "Joey."

"_He's spreading that around_?"

* * *

By the time he'd heard about it he couldn't find her at school so Rich cut his remaining two classes, got on his bike, and rode home. He knew she was there the instant he opened the front door, her purple backpack is blocking the entrance way. Rich steps over it, tucks his hair behind his ears and calls out, making his way to her room. "Luce?" There's no answer. Her door's open and he sticks his head inside. He speaks softly. "Hey." Nothing. He steps in. "Hey. Lou." Lucy's on her bed, laying on her side, her head pillowed by her arm. Her reddened face is wrinkled into tears. "You okay?" She hasn't moved and he cocks his head in impatient disbelief she's not even acknowledging him, "Hey, com'on now."

Drearily she lifts her tearful head, "I can't believe this."

He nods slowly, "I know." Lucy pushes herself upright and he takes a seat beside her.

Wiping the hair and tears away from her eyes Lucy looks at him imploringly, "Does everybody know?"

"I don't know," he equivocates. Lucy exhales. Rich shrugs, trying to be encouraging, "It'll blow over."

"Right."

"It will." He tucks his hair again and gestures, "People never talk about the same thing that long."

Lucy stops and looks at him. She sniffs. "You hate me?"

"'Hate you'?" he scoffs. "Yeah, I 'hate you'." Rich shakes his head lovingly, "Knucklehead."

* * *

The day after, the Embryos, most of them, are in the loft ready for practice, should it ever start. Jordan's seated on a plastic dairy crate retuning his tuned guitar just to pass the time. Shane, maybe hoping for a chance to step in, 's sprawled out across the couch, Marco's hanging out an open window smoking a cigarette, and Rich is pacing back and forth as he plucks his bass in agitation. No Tino. No Joey.

The loft door opens; Shane props himself up half way and they all turn their heads toward the entrance — is it Tino or is it Joey? It's Joey, and Rich is about to explode. From the window Marco calls out sociably, "There he is!" in a feeble attempt to stave off conflict. But Rich is fuming and a lighthearted greeting from Marco's not doing anything to restrain him.

Rich moves several paces forward in blunt anger, "_Hey_! That's my _little sister_, man!" When Rich Pullman's angry his voice goes up at the end of his sentences, and it does so now. Joey finds him irritating, just not all that intimidating.

But still, upon confrontation Joey bristles immediately. "Yeah? Well, I didn't _do_ anything."

Rich is indignant, "You didn't '_do anything_'? You've got the whole school talking about her! She's not Rayanne Graff or Cynthia _Hargrove_!"

"Hey," Jordan interjects (there's no reason to go dragging other people's names into this, people he used to go around with).

"Listen—" Joey moves in, towering over Rich, speaking with intensity and muscles straining with the intention to intimidate or worse. "Get off my case, or I'll—"

"Or you'll _what_? Take a swing at me? Go ahead!"

"Get outta my face, man!"

"You've got to be_ kidding_!"

"Yo! Cool it!" This time it's Shane who stepped in; they ignore him too.

"She's freakin' _crying_, man! You gotta apologize!"

"I don't think so!" There's barely any space between them now, and if it looked like it would come to blows a few seconds back, now it looks like Joey might actually kill Rich.

Jordan's on his feet in no time, "_Hey_! Knock it off!" He's right between them, speaking first to Rich, "Back up, man," then addressing Joey, "Just apologize; ya know what ya did." He tries to reason with Joey, "You made her cry — say you're sorry."

Joey looks Jordan in the eye then turns away with a scoff, "Whatever."

"'_Whatever_'?" Rich cannot believe the arrogance.

Shane steps in with the intention to placate, "It's over, man."

"_Really_?" Rich looks around the room. From Shane, to Jordan, to Marco. Not one of them's looking to throw Joey out. Not one of them is appropriately pissed off. He shakes his head. "_I'm outta here_."

Jordan exhales, it doesn't have to come to this; "Wait—"

"No," Rich says flatly. "And ya know what?" he addresses the room. "I never liked you in the first place. I'm only here cuz'a Tino. _And where is he_? I'm done."

"Richie—" Marco tries.

Rich unstraps his bass in one fluid movement and grabs his case and jacket, "I'm sick of covers anyway." Having a hard time believing he ever showed to this practice he's out the door, "Find someone else to be your Fat Mike." And he slams the door behind him.

* * *

Two days later Jordan finds Rich hanging at Vertigo Coffee House. Wordlessly he pulls up a chair at the small unsteady table and waits for him to speak. Rich's surprised to see him after all that went down and he tucks his hair and blinks at Jordan who's now leaning back in his chair, sedate and level-headed, "Hey."

Rich nods his acknowledgment, "Hey." Though Rich's always been cool with Jordan, to him everything that happened the other night is bull shit. Catalano can sit there as zen as he chooses, Rich is out. Band or no band. His actual friends wouldn't 've seen it play out that way.

"How's it going?"

Rich swallows and nods. "Okay. Tino send you?"

"'Send me'?" Jordan questions. "Uh, uh."

"You here about the band?"

He shakes his head, "No." Jordan stretches and looks about casually, maybe stifling a yawn, "Just, here. Talking t' you."

Rich's eyes narrow, "You side with Joey?"

Again Jordan silently shakes his head. "No sides."

Rich shakes his head, "See, man? That's _wrong_. 'Cuz there _should_ be sides." Jordan traces his finger through some spilt sugar on the table surface. Rich looks right at him: "You got a little sister?"

Once more Jordan shakes his head. Eventually he speaks up, clearing his throat a little as he does, "No. I uh," he scratches the back of his head, "got a half sister; she's older."

"But you get what I mean, don't you?"

"Well," Jordan fidgets with his ring, "sure."

"I don't treat girls like that," Rich says flatly. "I don't think it's cool when guys do. Sister or not."

"… Yeah," Jordan kind of nods. "… Course."

Rich tucks his hair, "I mean, a girl spends time with you, you don't turn round and treat her with freakin' _disdain_." He looks to Jordan, "_Right_?"

Jordan doesn't like to be put on the spot like this; he's not ready to look back and analyze all the ways he's ever treated girls, but there's only one way he can answer and stay in the conversation, "Yeah. I mean, 'no'."

Rich shakes his head, still confounded by the course of events. "Man, that guy's an _a-hole_."

* * *

A couple minutes before the bell Tino and Jordan stride into a freshman English class. Towards the back Tino slides into the empty desk beside the younger of the Pullman siblings while Jordan stands crossed-armed to the side leaning up against a bulletin board, a straightened paper clip between his lips.

"Lucy in the sky with diamonds," Tino beams as he tugs her desk and her along with it a few inches closer to his; "How does it go?" Her tight lips form the shape of an obligated smile of recognition. "Ya not talkin'? To me, or ta anyone?"

Lucy looks first at her classmates then back to Tino, her voice is low and devoid of much emotion. "What would I have against you?"

Tino's smile says he's nowhere but on her side; "Some might say I told ya so."

She looks from Tino to Jordan, "You did tell me so."

"Well, no hard feelings?" Tino arches his brows in that goofy way that screws up his face and never fails to get people with him. She halfway smiles. "Look, guys are jerks, what can I say?"

"But I didn't even like him, he went after me."

"That's the cost of being cute and young."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It's high school kid, welcome to the rodeo." Tino leans back in his desk, crossing his outstretched legs at the ankles, "So, what'd ya learn?"

"What you said; 'guys are jerks.'"

"Well," Tino rubs his eye and sits up a little, "come on now, play fair: we're all jerks, when it come to someone else's feelings. Your type's no better with that; let's be real."

"So," Lucy searches for what Tino might see as another possible lesson, "'listen to you'?"

Tino grins, flashes a quick eyebrow wag at Jordan, then looks back to Lucy, "Much as I like that, gotta think there's somethin' more meaningful."

"Yeah," Lucy nods, "I get it."

"Good." Tino pounds her desk lightly with his fist; "You're gonna be great. 'Member, not everyone's worth pleasing." Lucy nods solemnly.

"So," she looks to both the boys, "Richie's out of the band?"

"_My_ band? Haven't jumped him out yet, so I think he's still in."

Jordan finally speaks up, "Ya want him in?"

Lucy shrugs. "He liked it."

"Things might be kind of different now," Tino points out. The late bell rings, class is starting.

"Doesn't mean everything has to be," she says plainly.

"Atta girl," Tino pats her on the shoulder.

"Mr. Mourlot. Mr. Catalano. Where are you supposed to be right now?" The teacher up front is trying to get her class started.

Jordan straightens up and Tino rises from his desk, calling out as if to reassure a crowd, with the quieting hand gestures to go with it, "It's okay; we're not lost." The teacher starts to say something more but Tino cuts her off, still speaking much too loudly for the occasion, "We're_ O-K_." The freshmen giggle.

"That's very good to hear, Mr. Mourlot, now could you please—"

Tino tugs Lucy's desk back into place; in the now quiet room the metal desk legs dragged over the linoleum makes a terrible sound. Tino only grins. He pats Lucy's shoulders and calls out, "This girl's a champ! Class act!"

"Gentlemen, would you please?"

Tino points and winks at the teacher like their operating on the same secret level as he gets she wants them gone. Tino makes a duplicate sound effect of finality through the corner of his shut mouth and turns to join the amused Jordan who's waiting for him by the classroom's back exit. Passing through the back row of desks Tino gives a high five to a boy who's held up his hand to him, and with a final knock on the door frame, Tino and Jordan exit the classroom into the now empty hallway, leaving the teacher to try to regain order over her class.

* * *

Two weeks or so later as Tino follows Jordan out to the bleachers for a smoke, he catches sight of Lucy sitting with her friends on the grass eating lunch. "Hold up," he says, and Tino circles back and takes two freshman girls by surprise when he takes a seat between them sitting cross-legged across from Lucy in their little lunch circle. "Hey kid." Tino lets on like there's nothing unusual about an upperclassmen guy sitting Indian-style with a bunch of ninth graders on the grass by the girls' locker room.

Lucy tries to play it straight, answering in turn, "Hi."

Jordan, standing behind Tino now, squints into the sun and nods a 'hello', "How's it going?"

"Fine." Lucy pops a large green grape in her mouth. The other girls continue quietly eating, taking in every detail of the exchange.

"'Fine'?" Tino's not at all satisfied with that assessment. As he continues he holds out his hands like a catcher, hoping to score some food. Lucy tosses him her ziplock of grapes and he wolfs down a handful before handing the bag back to Jordan. Though his mouth is still full with half eaten grapes Tino resumes the conversation, "Ya happy an' ev'rything?"

"Mm, hm." She blushes when she looks towards Jordan, realizing he's been watching her. He looks away to give her a break and entertains himself with tossing a grape up to catch with his mouth.

Ankles still crossed, Tino's knees are in the air, supported by his arms wrapped round them. He looks right at her, "Ya know your big bro's back in the band; he tell ya?" He leans in to the girl on his right and ducks his head into her lunch bag. Spotting pretzels he cocks an eyebrow at her and flashes an impish grin; she giggles and drops a handful in his outstretched palm.

Tearing off a corner of her peanut butter and honey sandwich Lucy nods, "He said."

"It still cool we use your garage?"

"It's fine." Her response is flat and she bites into the small piece of sandwich with absolute dispassion.

"Watch out now," Tino warns as he rises, "don't grow up too quickly. Ya gotta be old 'fore you get as jaded an' apathetic as Catalano."

"Shut up." Jordan smiles and nods collegiality to Lucy as they head off, "See ya around." As the boys make towards the bleachers the five girls practically swoon.

* * *

First Frozen Embryos rehearsal in the Pullman garage since the blow out at the loft: Shane, a sometimes in - sometimes out member of the band 's in attendance as all-around sub 'n case anybody flakes. (He can't play bass, but this is Rich's place, so they should already be square with that one.) Tino's in the kitchen scrounging for food, Jordan's messing around on Rich's bass, trying to get his phrasing right, Rich's seated on the concrete step leading into the house, his hands crossed before his upright knees, while Shane sits at the drums working out a beat. Marco's in a lawn chair reading Tino's tattered copy of _Zen and the art of Motorcycles_. If Joey's showing, he hasn't done so yet.

Lucy enters from the house, side stepping Rich as she does. "There she is!" Shane announces jovially and drums a little riff for effect.

"Hey," Jordan smiles blandly at her. "How's it going?"

"Hey," Lucy smiles mildly. She's making this appearance to prove she's okay — both to the other boys and to her brother — and to show this is her house: she's not going to hide out. Still though, it's a little embarrassing knowing what they know.

Shane rises, "Hey Luce, get behind this drum kit and strike out a beat." She hesitates. He holds out his sticks to her, "Come on."

"Do it," Jordan advises. "Never turn down learning an instrument."

"Thought the lesson was drummers are bad."

"Only when the drum kit's not around," Tino asserts from the doorframe he's now leaning against.

"That could'a been a lot dirtier," Jordan observes as he pivots away from the conversation, still messing around on the bass.

"Here," Shane makes room for her to pass and she sits. Setting the drumsticks in her hands he adjusts her fingering, "Hold e'm like this. Loose. Okay, now," he takes hold of her wrists and drums her through a little riff. Rich's stood to watch and Marco's put down his book. With Shane's help she almost has a rough beat going. At this point Joey's walked up the cracked red concrete driveway and is standing right beyond the opened garage. Seeing the guys enclosed around her such as they are, the message is received: _Don't mess with her._

With a final strike on the drums Lucy rises from behind them, makes her way through the garage, making a point not to avoid making eye contact with Joey, then reenters the house and closes the door behind her.

In short time the Frozen Embryos start up their first song. (Not a cover.)

* * *

_Posted 4/14/13_


	7. Tino loves hospitals

**After Rayanne's overdose in "Other People's Mothers"**

The night of Rayann'e overdose, after the Chases have gone home, Tino shows up at the hospital. Standing in the room alone, he looks down at her, watching her sleep. He holds the top of his head as he stands there. … His arm drops, he watches her chest rise and fall as she breathes slowly. … With the base of his hand he forcefully rubs his eye. … In the quiet room, the beeping of the heart monitor fills his ears. ... He sighs. "Fuck."

* * *

A day or two later, Tino and Jordan pass by Tino's mom on the way to his room. "Hey kiddos." They both call out "Hey" and start up the stairs but she calls them back. "Hold on a minute." Both boys pause, and turn back. "Amber Vallone called me." She meant for this have impact, "What happened."

Tino answers her, "Pills and liquor."

He wasn't being glib, but all the same, she doesn't like his answer. "Don't play apathetic with me. Were you there?"

Tino's confused, "The hospital?"

She clarifies, "The party." Registering what he's said, "You went to the hospital?" Tino nods. This is news to Jordan. Tino's mother is distraught. "Were you at the party?"

"You think J would go to Rayanne's?"

Tino's mom concedes this point - she knows Rayanne is not Jordan's favorite person - but that says nothing about where her son was. "Tino?"

Sober, "Yeah. I was there."

She presses him, "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. It was a party. Rayanne - and half of Pittsburgh - was drinking."

"Amber said there were pills. _ Did you know about that?"

"Did I know she had 'em? Yeah." His mother's expression grows darker. "I didn't see her take them. _I _didn't take them."

Directing this to both boys, "What did I say to you about pills?"

Tino's not being defiant, but he is coming to his own defense, "Did you just hear me say I didn't take any?"

His mother gravely brings this fact to his attention, "You let her take them."

"'Let'? I'm not Rayanne's keeper." It isn't that Tino isn't affected; he is. There's a pace in his heart for Rayanne, but she knew what she was doing, and it wasn't his job to police or mother her. Everyone's responsible for their own self-destruction.

His mother is tired, and disappointed. "Tino. She's a person; more than that, she's your friend. More than that, she's a girl. There's a whole other set of concerns that come into play when a girl gets blackout drunk. Right?" She hasn't asked this rhetorically. "Right?" The boys nod.

"I wasn't even there that long. Rickie was there, and Angela Chase." This catches Jordan's attention. And despite everything, a faint swaggering grin briefly slips across Tino's face when he spots Jordan's reaction to Angela's name.

Better for Tino that his mother didn't notice this happening, and she continues, "Amber said. Angela's mom saved Rayanne's life."

"So, talk to Rickie."

"Please, that child's afraid of his shadow; he's not going to keep Rayanne from binge drinking."

Being his utmost sincere, "No one can keep anyone from binge drinking." Then adopts a more upbeat inflection to add, "Except you Mama." Lightening the mood, Tino smacks Jordan's arm with the back of his hand, "J and I are all about the moderation."

"This isn't funny."

"It isn't." Endeavoring to convince her he means it, "I was there."

Delivered almost as an order, "I want you safe."

Bordering on flippant, "Safe as I can be and still know I'm alive."

"I'm not so concerned about you _feeling_ alive as I am about you _being_ alive."

Lovingly mocking her sentiment, "Aw." Tino wraps his arms round her. She clasps his arm to her and grasps his hair, holding him tightly. Tino's mildly amused, and fondly kisses her head. Momentarily she reaches out and also grabs a hold of Jordan. The physical affection embarrasses Jordan, but he doesn't entirely mind it.

Still holding her child, "I'm sorry this happened to your friend."

Solemn, "Thanks Mama." He squeezes her and then releases his hold. Rubbing his forehead with the base of palm, something stands out to him. "Since when does Amber call you?"

"She was upset. Understandably. She needed to talk to a mother. Who was she going to call?" Tino and Jordan move again towards the stairs. "Boys?" They turn, "The choices you make when you're drinking, their consequences last much longer than a hangover. Some things you can't take back."

Soberly assuring her, "We got it" Tino heads up the stairs, Jordan following.

* * *

_Posted 9/4/12_


	8. Off screen what else happened

**The following are what may have happened between the moments in the series:**

* * *

**After Angela leaves Jordan alone at the abandoned house in "Pressure"**

Not wanting to follow after her, Jordan retreats to the garage and smokes a cigarette with a couple guys he knows. Halfway through his smoke, Cynthia Hargrove enters the garage.

She spots Jordan, and says dryly, "Still here?" He ignores her; a little angry and humiliated at having been part of a scene. He's slightly more embittered that she was there to witness it.

He and Cynthia hadn't ended things badly. Even still he couldn't quite say just what it was they had had. They'd had a lot in common, she didn't annoy him, they'd had some laughs, but, he'd never loved her. It'd actually never been treated as a possibility that he loved her, or she him. But it'd never been exactly just a hookup. They'd had conversations. But Cynthia had this way, of acting like Jordan was a walking punch line in her world, like he was endlessly amusing, and Jordan hated to feel ridiculous, and didn't want to find himself on the outside of her jokes.

And there was a little bit of the other thing. Angela Chase and Cynthia Hargrove? They didn't exactly come from the same cloth. They dressed differently, the spoke differently, they acted differently… - He interrupts that train of thought: No. He wasn't in the wrong here. - And while he thought he might actually prefer Angela's quieter, softer, demureness to the force that was Cynthia, he wasn't ready to be judged for it, or for it to fall apart in front of her. He rolls his eyes.

Feigning ignorance, "Here alone?" She looks around, "'Cuz I thought I saw you come in with-"

Cutting her off, she's had her fun, "Okay."

"So what happened?" Jordan glowers. "Well, I mean, maybe you should give her a break." He cocks his eyebrow.

"Yeah, why do you care?"

Cynthia responds breezily, "I don't. But, isn't she a little, something…?" Searching for the word, "New?"

"So?"

It's no skin off her nose, "Nothing." Slightest change in her tone, now really leveling with Jordan, "But did you really expect it to be like it's always been?"

He'd rather just be sullen and bitter, and if he has to be made to see it from another side, does it have to be her? But he makes himself listen, "Meaning?"

"You sure you have a good idea of who she is?"

* * *

The next day, Jordan's in Tino's room, tuning his guitar. Tino, plucking away at his bass, waiting for Jordan to be ready, coolly broaches the subject, "So, what happened?" Jordan doesn't respond. Tino's not letting him get away with that, but he keeps it casual, "Jordan. How'd it go?"

"Nothin' happened."

"Yeah?" He makes an adjustment in his tuning, listens, and continues, "How come?"

Irritated, "I don't know." He stops with the guitar. "She just left. Sum'in 'bout Rayanne." He knows it sounds silly; he returns to his tuning. "Sumpi'n 'bout another OD."

Laughing, "What?" Regaining composure - he knows this is suspect, but he does not want to make Jordan out to be a fool. "J, I don't know what that's about, but, Rayanne's been clean since that night." Joking a little, "Maybe hard to believe … but …" He looks at his friend, before diverting his attention back to his instrument. "Sorry."

Begrudgingly, "Kind of figured…"

Thinking about it, "So - she lied."

"Yeah."

"What's that about?" Jordan shakes his head. "You see this coming?" Dour, Jordan shrugs. "Hate to say it, but, not all that shocked." Leveling with his friend, "She was never going to go through with it. Not like that." Jordan exhales bitterly – he might of known that was true. "What'cha going to do?" Jordan shakes his head. "You out?"

There is a long silence. Jordan doesn't think he has a response to this. He doesn't know what he wants now. But after further thinking, he speaks up, a little confrontational - not towards Tino, but in general. "'_Out_' of what? What _is_ this?" Tino shrugs rhetorically. Jordan continues, frustrated with the whole situation. "What does she want? _ I looked like a jackass at that stupid house."

"You leave together?"

Bitter, "No. She left. I stayed and smoked a cigarette." It pains him to share this part, "Ran into Cynthia." Tino reacts fittingly; Jordan rolls his eyes.

* * *

**Between "Life of Brian" and "Self-Esteem"**

Later, the same night as the dance, Jordan and his buddies are in the backyard at Cathy's – Nate's girlfriend – house. People are sitting around drinking, there is a small fire blazing in a pit, Marco, one of the guys from Frozen Embryos and an earthy looking girl are strumming on acoustic guitars, playing bits of songs back and forth for each other rather than for the general group assembled in the backyard. The mood is mellow – this is just friends hanging out, not a party. There's a couple of cases of beer that people have brought stacked by the back steps of the house. Jordan is inside, sitting at the small kitchen table, absently flipping through a cookbook featuring glossy images of food on every other page. While he isn't paying any real attention to the pages he is glossing over, he is seemingly entrenched in the act itself. Shane bounds up the back steps, opens the door and enters the kitchen. He hangs in the doorway, watching Jordan, his hand resting on the doorknob, holding the door open behind him. When Jordan still doesn't look up, Shane lets the door bang shut and then slowly crosses to the refrigerator. He inspects its contents, finally pulls out an apple, then leans back against the kitchen counter, standing across from Jordan, who is still sitting at the table studying the book.

"Gettin' in some reading?" Shane shoots Jordan a cocky look.

Jordan looks up, a little disoriented, "There still people outside?"

Taking a huge bite from the apple, "Yeah." Shane surveys the kitchen, and kind of laughs at the memory of the earlier part of the night, "Heh, how classic was that thing tonight at school?"

"Huh? Oh, the, uh, dance?"

"Yeah, the dance." Jeering, "'World Happiness'?" Dismissing it and taking another giant bite, "Just a bunch of preps playing dress up."

His opinion's still not formed, "Yeah?"

Shane sees it as obvious, "You were there…"

Still sounding a little puzzled, Jordan guesses he agrees, "Yeah…" Shane, now perched atop the counter, continues eating loudly. Cathy, whose house it is, enters the kitchen from the hallway. She's pretty and wears jeans and a gray, oversized, hooded sweatshirt. Her dark curly hair is pulled back through her boyfriend's cap.

As she passes, she sedately faux-punches Shane at the knee, "Hey." The boys both say "Hey" back. Cathy exits to the backyard.

Looking where she'd left, Shane reflects appreciatively, "She's so cool…" Thinking aloud, "We should get some horseshoes going tonight." As an after-thought, "Why are you reading that?" He jumps down from the counter and peeks over Jordan's shoulder, "Anything good?" Jordan closes the book and handles his beer. To this Shane only smirks. Around him, Jordan can be as taciturn as he likes, Shane only gets a kick out of it.

* * *

Still at the dance, Brian sits on the bleachers, and Angela, a bit apprehensively, leaves her conversation with Sharon to approach him. They both look at each other with dull expressions.

Angela ventures to speak, "I'm going to call my dad. You're ready, right?"

"Um, actually, I think I'm going to walk."

Even this irritates her – does he now have to play the martyr? She sounds tired, "Brian. You don't have to walk." A little more amiable, "We'll give you a ride."

"I-" Trying to come up with a reasonable 'out'. "Uh-"

Sternly, "Brian. Take the ride." Satisfied, she adds, "I'm going to go call."

* * *

Jordan emerges from the house holding a brown bottle. He lights the cigarette he's had tucked behind his ear, and aimlessly moves through the small groups of people, eventually sitting in a wood deck chair just beyond the ring of light the fire emits. Marco, the other guitarist in Frozen Embryos – already done with school - comes and sits down next to Jordan. He's drinking a tall-boy but carrying a six pack.

Pushing his long silky hair off his shoulder, "Hey." He picks up a twig from the ground, snaps off a few branches, and then chucks it into the fire. He leans back into his chair. "How's your night?"

Jordan goes to take a drink from his bottle, but finding it empty, he sets it on the ground by him and exhales. "Weird." In response, Marco offers Jordan a beer; Jordan stands slightly to lean over and take one, then sits down again, opening the bottle with his lighter. He takes a drink, and begins a conversation without looking directly at the Marco. "Ever…?" Jordan never finishes the thought, but eventually begins another one. "So, that thing at school tonight…"

Marco hadn't been, but he knew what Jordan meant, "The dance. Yeah?"

Jordan takes a drink, and then says with almost no interest, "What's that about?"

Kind of chuckling, "Meaning?"

Jordan looks for the right word, looking anywhere but at Marco, "I'm, not sure I get the – 'appeal'?"

"I'm not so sure there is one. … Naw, I mean, it's supposed to be fun."

This is kind of a new thought for Jordan. "Is it?"

Marco scoffs good naturedly, "Heh, not for you. But yeah, I think some people think that sort of stuff is cool."

"So," trying to figure this thing out, "like, people do that? They go to things like dances in school gyms, and that's, like, what they _do_? Making, you know, _plans_, and having, like _expectations_?"

Marco looks at Jordan like he's tripping, then kind of laughs. "You okay man?" With a wry grin, he handles the empty bottle Jordan put down by his feet, "There more of these somewhere?" Jordan squints his eyes. "What's going on with you?"

Jordan flicks his cigarette butt into the flames, and kind of laughs at himself, "Nothing." At that point, a cute girl walks by and gives Jordan a look. He sits there for a little while longer, thinking something over, then nods at his friend and stands. "See you around."

Jordan goes and talks with the girl. He kind of backs her up, leaning into her; they exchange words for a little while, and she moves in closer to subtly suggest the potential for something; they quietly exit the scene together.

* * *

A little while later Brian and Angela are outside the school waiting for their ride. They stand remotely together, but at an awkward distance for people who are waiting together. Graham pulls up directly in front of the steps, which seems to further embarrass Angela. She and Brian approach the car, and there's some confusion about which door each one will use. Once they are seated and driving, Graham asks, "How was it?" Her elbow resting on the car's window ledge, chin resting in palm, Angela doesn't say anything; she looks out the window and tunes out to the rest of the car. "That bad? That good?" Graham looks into the backseat through the rearview mirror; Brian too is staring out of his window. Graham kind of cocks an eyebrow as he inspects the situation.

Angela thinks to herself, _It is inevitable – I make a fool of myself. Unfailingly I misjudge things and set myself up for humiliation. _She continues looking out the window, and as she remembers specifics from the evening, she cringes and blushes. She moves her hand to cover her face. _Oh God!_ Graham turns the music up.]

* * *

On the bus that Monday morning, Angela and Brian are pretty much ignoring the other. After a while Angela moves closer to where Brian sits. "Hey," her greeting is feeble. Brian 'Hmphs' a response. She presses on, "So the dance sucked."

"Yeah; it did."

Deciding humor's the way to go, she says earnestly, "Let's blame Sharon." Brian doesn't especially appreciate this attempt at humor. She starts again. "I don't even know really why I wanted to go." He rolls his eyes slightly, but she continues. "Listen. For my part, I'm sorry it worked out how it did."

After a moment or two, Brian capitulates, "Me too."

Trying to find something nice to say, "Maybe you could try calling Delia."

Pretty adamant, "I don't think so." She gives him a tight-lipped smile to fill the space.

"So, okay…" She gets up to move back to where she was seated.

Brian stops her, "Angela," not totally confidant in the delivery, "if there's a Sadie Hawkins, I'm not available." She kind of laughs, and nods. He rolls his eyes once he's looking ahead and she's behind him - _'Was it _ever_ going to get easier?'_

* * *

In English, Angela is ignoring Jordan. She seems a little humiliated.

* * *

At school, Angela sees Jordan talking to other girls; he drives away with one as she's in line for the bus, one day; he had kind of glanced at her before getting in the car.

* * *

Angela is in a used music shop, sorting through CD's with Rayanne, venting about Jordan. "I don't get him."

"I don't get it – what's to 'get'?"

Skipping past Rayanne's token digs at Jordan, "He's impossible and unintelligible."

"You're just frustrated because it didn't work out how you wanted it to when you tried to orchestrate him into 'My Angelica's' high school fantasy dream date..'

Defensive, "You should talk; how'd it go when you tried to orchestrate Rickie's night?"

"No; that wasn't my fault. I _got _them together."

Cluing her into reality, "Rayanne, Rickie was mortified."

Flippantly dismissive, "Rickie doesn't _want _to let anything happen. He's not ready to let himself be happy. Too much baggage. What you've got to realize, Angela, is that you can't micromanage guys like Jordan Catalano." Adding for humor, "At least not until you're sleeping with them." Angela cocks her eyebrow, "And probably not even then. On the other hand, I never would have believed he'd show to Chirsky's dance in the first place."

Tired of all of it, Angela wants to move on, "Anyway, it doesn't matter; I'm over Jordan Catalano."

Dryly, Rayanne pretends to believe her, "_Yeah_."

Undeterred, "I mean it. He's _weird_, I never know what he's thinking; we're way too different, and I never have any idea what he's going to do next."

Keeping Angela honest, "Uh, uh. That's what you _like_ about him."

"Yeah? Well, not anymore. I was totally humiliated. What does that even mean? '_The way you are_?' What, like _he_ knows _me_?" Getting a bit worked up, "He gets to make assumptions about how I _am_? '_The way I Am'_?!" Angela catches herself, realizing that she's speaking too loudly for being in public. She lowers her voice to a more intimate hush, and then continues. "What about _him_? What about the way he is?"

Flatly delivering the line she's expected to say, knowing well that in a day Angela will be deep in it again, "It's ridiculous."

Concurring, empowered by the solidarity, "Infuriating."

"So, no more talk of Catalano?

"Absolutely."

"What about Krakow?"

"Definitely not."

* * *

In gym Angela's running laps with Rayanne, then Rayanne gets fed up and stops. Angela's now running alone, three or four yards ahead of Sharon, and Jordan runs by her and says "Hey." This surprises her. After the run, talking with her girlfriends, Angela pulls her sweatshirt off, and doing so tugs her shirt up part of the way in the back; from across the gym Jordan takes note of her waist, and the small of her back.

* * *

After school, Angela has missed the bus, and stands waiting in the parking lot. Jordan slows as he drives by. Angela looks away - maybe a little too conspicuously - just as Jordan passes by . He never looks directly at her in the moments he mulls over his decision, before stopping the car and rolling down the window.

"Hey," he flexes his fingers off the steering wheel, "want a lift?"

Angela has to think about it for a while before accepting. As a defense mechanism, she comes off pretty aloof at first.

Jordan looks her over as she fastens her seatbelt and he shifts into gear. "What's happening?" As always, he comes off as effortlessly cool. Angela shrugs; he glances again in her direction, "What, you're not talking?"

Sober, "I guess," she purses her lips to the side, "I'm not too sure of what to say to you." Jordan doesn't say anything to this, and doesn't seem to think it's an especially strange thing for her to say, clearly missing that it was a condemnation of his past behavior towards her. He drives through the parking lot, then onto the street,

Thinking, shifting his lower jaw and feeling his teeth with his tongue, "Anywhere you have to be?"

Angela waits a moment, before casting a sideways glance in his direction; she considers… "I don't think so…"

Starting his seduction, "Wanna, find something to do?"

She looks at him, studying him, then speaks slowly, "Do I?" He isn't going to answer that for her. In deliberation, she licks her lips and runs her hand through her hair, but before anything else happens, and before she gives him any kind of an indication, he kisses her.

* * *

Angela and Jordan are in English class and she's trying not to look at him, but he notices her glance. He gets up from his desk and coolly slips into an empty desk beside her, leaning toward her, speaking low without actually looking in her direction. "You know the north wing of the main hallway, by the north exit?" She glances at him briefly, then averts her eyes and nods slowly once. "The door that's not a classroom?"

Averting her gaze even further, "The boiler room?"

"Yeah." He just as abruptly gets up and returns to his desk. She doesn't know what to think. She's intrigued, but trying not to raise her expectations.

…

Time's lapsed and Jordan strides back across the classroom, carrying something small, moving it between the index, middle and ring fingers of his right hand. He casually passes by and covertly drops it on her desk after which he lopes out of the room. She looks and sees a folded scrap of paper that reads "Angella", and inside:

LUNCH – MEET ME THEIR

* * *

** Before "On The Wagon" - Tino quits the band**

Tino, Joey, Jordan, Rich, and Marco are in the loft rehearsing for Frozen Embryos. As they play, Tino looks dissatisfied - as the others focus on their tasks, Tino's turning his head between them, not loving what he's hearing. He suddenly stops mid song, looks around. As the others peter out, Tino speaks his mind, "This is crap."

Either because no one responded in the way he wanted, or because the thought just struck him, and why not entertain the impulse, he picks up the mic stand and chucks it into the bass drum. He straightens, looking at his mayhem, then a moment later speaks pretty evenhandedly. "I'm done."

Joey bolts up in an outrage, "What the-?! _Tino_!"

Jordan's just as surprised, and pretty pissed himself, '_what was Tino thinking_?' "Tino-"

Feedback from the mic jarrs over the amps. Tino's feeling pretty satisfied with how that played out, and has no interest in dealing with their static. "This isn't working for me." He picks up his jacket, looks them over once, and walks out without another thought.

* * *

**Before "the betrayal" during the Corey Helfrick flirtations**

Looking rundown in his knit cap and corduroy jacket, Jordan absently follows his sister Lisa around while she shops at a farmer's market. Inspecting some winter squashes, "So, why'd you call?" He doesn't say anything. "You need money?"

Grouchy, "No."

Moving from that stall to another, "You look like shit."

"Thanks."

Not particularly enjoying this sullen teenager act, "How long have you been in this mood?" He starts to light a cigarette – "Don't light up here." He puts the cigarette away, when she adds wryly, "Unless it's a clove." He scoffs appreciatively.

"I was out late."

Paying for a jar of honey, "Bad time or good time?" Jordan only yawns. "Did you break up with that girl?"

"That was months ago. And that was never really anything anyway." Without him noticing, she looks at him, trying to gauge if his words are to be taken at face value.

* * *

_Posted 9/4/12_


	9. Off screen Aftermath

**_This is another 'Off-screen, what we never saw' segment. Not sure I nailed it. Thanks so much for reading!_**

* * *

**_After _the Betrayal…**

Staring sedately ahead, Jordan drives down the quiet street; beside him Rayanne's lightly dozing, leaning her head against the cool of the passenger side window. Jordan has a general idea of where she lives, but isn't sure of the building. He slows down.

His voice is brusque as it breaks the silence, "Which one?" After no immediate response he asks again, "Rayanne - which one?" Nothing. This time he's a little less gruff, "Graff."

Rayanne speaks, "Stop," before even fully opening her eyes. Her voice is drained and without emotion. He pulls over.

Mostly he's looking straight ahead, his eyes closed some - he is still drunk himself - but as she grasps for her bag their eyes do momentarily meet. Immediately they both look away. Once out of the car she shuts the door loudly behind her and climbs her steps. Jordan's left watching her leave; his gaze falls upon his passenger seat now newly empty and he's forced to reflect on the events that unfolded that night. He can only shut his eyes and exhale in response.

"Christ."

Jordan starts the car and drives.

* * *

The next morning Jordan drives to Tino's house. This is something he has to do. He doesn't know what he'll do about the other thing – Angela – but he's got to tell Tino.

What Tino sees in Rayanne Jordan can't see, but Tino has a thing for Rayanne Graff, and Jordan has to be up front with him about what happened with his friend.

He parks, lops up the pathway, and lets himself through the side gate into the backyard. Still feeling a little sick, and a little like this was a lot of effort to make over a hook-up with someone who wasn't any kind of a girlfriend, Jordan sucks it up and opens the backdoor.

Ducking his head first into the TV room and finding it empty, Jordan proceeds to the kitchen. Still wet from his shower, Tino's standing half dressed in a towel, drinking coffee and eating oatmeal. He's sipping his coffee when he sees Jordan. With a friendly head nod, Tino tosses an orange at Jordan, who, though looking a little uncomfortable, catches it one handed with ease.

"What's going on?" Tino asks affably. Jordan's distracted, not quite sure how to say what he has to say. He doesn't answer. "Where'd you go last night?"

"Huh?"

"What happened to you? You never showed at Nate's." Tino sits atop the kitchen counter, continuing to eat his oatmeal, looking to Jordan with mild curiosity; Jordan remains a bit stiff.

His apprehension puts him on the defense. "So?" Amused by Jordan's taciturn turn, Tino throws up his hands in mock surrender; Jordan continues on the offensive, "You're never where you say you'll be."

Tino shakes his head with a chuckle, "It's too early for _this_. What's going on brother?" Jordan makes a face. "Sumin' happ'n at Louie's?" Tino questions amiably

"Got drunk."

"I'll alert the media."

Head down, Jordan's looking up through his hair, keeping his eyes on Tino, "Ran into Rayanne Graff." Tino's getting bored - this story is taking too long and is going nowhere.

"And?" Tino's off the counter now. His back to Jordan, he rinses his bowl ind the sink and takes another swig of coffee.

"That's it," Jordan says. "Didn't make it to Nate's."

At this, Tino had ever so slightly paused as he realized what filled the gaps in Jordan's story; then, reanimated, he dumps his remaining coffee down the drain. His back still turned, Tino repeats Jordan's words, low and level, "'Cuz last night you got drunk and ran into Rayanne Graff."

Jordan's sorry to say it, "Yeah."

Tino sets about piecing it together, "So, she was drunk, too."

A second passes before Jordan answers in the same deadened tone he's been using, "Not too."

"And she got home…?"

Jordan's getting slightly impatient with the line of questioning – _Tino, just get on with it_, "I gave her a ride."

There's a brief pause as Tino processes all this, then, feeling compelled to lighten the mood, while still not actually light, he chides, "No drunk driving talk in Mommy's kitchen."

Undeterred from his purpose Jordan asks, "We cool?" He points out, "You're asking me questions like I'm an asshole."

Tino's moving again, finally really looking at Jordan. He pours him a mug of coffee and handing it over remarks, "It's Rayanne who always thought you were an asshole." Tino shoves the sugar bowl in Jordan's direction. "So, I guess it really is over with Angela Chase."

Jordan looks up, "Why do you say that?" Compensating for his slip of betraying more than he'd meant to, Jordan takes a gulp of coffee - can't seem too concerned - but Tino'd already caught it. Jordan proceeds coolly. "That was weeks ago, or more."

Tino plays along, "Sure." Pulling on a grey tee from a mound of clean laundry piled on the kitchen table, Tino changes gears, "You going to school?" Jordan nods. Tino walks past him into a small laundry room, mumbling something about how Jordan should eat something – 'If he was that drunk his gut must feel like hell'. While out of the room he pulls items from the still-running dryer and finishes dressing. Jordan, still not quite at ease, paces a bit as he waits, scratching the back of his head.

Impatient, over the noise of the appliance he calls out, "Tino?"

But Tino's already reentering, speaking in a reserved volume that marks the difference from Jordan's. "If Rayanne's cool, I'm cool." He holds Jordan's eye contact as he says, "I'm _assuming_ she's cool." But he doesn't have to wait for confirmation from his friend – even with everything, Tino knows if Rayanne's not alright, it isn't because of something Jordan did.

Calling it settled, Tino moves ahead with his morning. Carrying socks, boots, and Jordan's untouched orange, Tino snatches up his keys and his grandfather's lighter and leads the way out of his house. Moving down the hallway, obliged to make light of a thing he's unable to alter, Tino makes his point by jovially needling his friend, "It's Angela I feel for. Would-not-like-to-be-her."

"Shut up."

By the time they reach the front door Tino's back to his customary levity - though possibly in affect only - and he's shaking his head at his friend in restrained bafflement, "Boy, Catalano, I tell you what; you've been doing some pretty out of character things lately." Less than two steps out of the house it strikes him he's left the house with no coat, "Christ! It's cold." Tino reaches in and grabs a navy Dickies jacket from a rack before slamming the door behind them.

* * *

Later that day at school, Jordan and Tino spend their lunch period sitting atop the trunk of Tino's Cadillac, Jordan's Plymouth parked in the next spot over. Jordan's drinking coffee he snuck out of the faculty lounge while Tino finishes the last spoonfuls of a vegetable chowder a girlfriend of his had brought him at the end of last period.

Tino squints in Jordan's direction, "I'm not getting a 'why', am I?" Jordan's expression is blank; he doesn't have one. Setting the thermos down beside him, Tino watches Jordan's reaction when he says, "It's all over school."

Jordan looks up in muted alarm, but Tino shakes his head: it was a joke. Jordan hesitates, glancing once at Tino, "You talk to 'er?"

Tino's subdued in his answer. Jordan's his best friend, family - breaking up is not an option; but though he's choosing not to get angry Tino is not happy about the situation and it's not on him to make it any easier on Catalano, "I'm not talking to her; not for you." He holds Jordan's eye contact, "You talk to her."

Jordan's head bobs slowly, "I did."

Tino'd taken it about how he'd known he would – cool, but Jordan still feels a little like he has to justify himself. Yeah, Tino may, or may not have, lost his virginity with her last year – Tino'd never elaborated on the specifics – but they'd for sure never gone out. Tino never felt that way about her. It shouldn't 've happened, clearly, but it hadn't been _wrong_ – not like that. Jordan breaks the silence "…You were never really together."

Tino concedes the point, "No…"

"I mean, you don't _really_ like her."

In answer Tino looks at his friend; when he speaks Tino is open, muted, direct and without affectation, "I like her more than you do." Jordan thinks for a minute about how that's true. Tino puts it as plainly as he can, "She's my _friend_."

Somehow that simple self-evident declaration leaves Jordan feeling sadder, emptier, and more in the wrong than he'd expected. He meets Tino's eyes and owns his mistake, "I know."

Tino accepts this, waits, and changes gears – he's not going to hold it against Jordan, so he has to move on. Tino clears his throat, "You working tonight?" Jordan nods. "My brakes're doing this... thing."

Jordan's answer's sedate, he's still preoccupied with thoughts of Tino, Rayanne, the whole school, and, Angela. He sniffs, "Yeah, I can do that. Come round like, 4:30." They sit. ... Jordan's mittened hand brushes his icy nose. ... Tino pulls off his knit cap and rubs his overheated head leaving his hair standing on end. ... Jordan rubs his eye. "Joey was with 'er."

Tino's unimpressed with this line of defense, "Oh, come on man. You could be better than that." Rising, Tino speaks with purpose though his tone is affable enough, "Clean it up and we're okay." He pats Jordan on the back and heads back to class.

* * *

After the last bell, Tino finds Rayanne. "Hey." Both his voice and manner are weighted.

"Hey."

"You okay?" When he asks this Rayanne's head shoots up in some form of self-preserving denial, but upon reading Tino's demeanor she skips through the initial obligatory feigned naiveté. He knows; probably everybody does, and her solemnity mirrors his own. This, Tino thinks, like that night she'd spent in the hospital, as well as so many other moments of lost friends and personal downfalls, she'd caused herself. No one did this but her. But standing there a solid foot above her, Tino feels a pang of protectiveness for her; he looks down at her, a body so small for a bravado usually so large. "No one else knows," he says. "If, that's a concern…"

Ruefully she plays it off, "Why would that be a concern?… 'Most slut potential' and all… I mean, who would be surprised?

"I was," he says somberly. She looks up at him and he holds her gaze.

"So," she begins, sounding a little sorry for herself as she does, "what, you picking sides now?"

"There's no sides."

Rayanne averts her eyes; feeling exposed and she looks first down the hallway, then casts her gaze downwards. She looks up only after the question's been asked, "Is he going tell her?"

"Are you?"

"Oh. Totally." Her irony is dry and a little embittered. Mumbling she adds, "'Cuz that wouldn't be too self-destructive."

Tino raises his palm to his head and rubs at his forehead, "Think you've done that. In spades."

Avoiding his eyes she asks, "Mad?"

His arm drops and he takes her bag for her and shoulders it himself, "Furious." He lightly shoves her shoulder, "Everything's cool. Just, uh, minimize the crazy." Rayanne opens her mouth to argue her case - that it wasn't all on her, but Tino cuts her off as he steers them toward the parking lot, "Don't want to hear it Graff." She shuts her mouth, takes a moment to note that Tino, at least, is still around, then follows after him.

"Hey, can I get a lift? There's something I gotta do."

He's five steps ahead of her, this is already a foregone conclusion: "Yes, I'll drive you to Angela Chase's."

* * *

On an evening days or weeks later, on the street outside the loft, Jordan talks to Tino while he waits for him to finish a cigarette.

"She won't talk to me." Jordan is irritable and frustrated, and feeling a little sorry for himself.

"Surprised by that?" Tino says, blowing four perfect smoke rings. "I told you."

"Yeah, but, she won't even look at me."

"So? You didn't want to be with her." Jordan starts to say something along the lines of '_It wasn't really about not wanting to be with her_', but Tino addresses it before Jordan gets a word out. "Okay, you didn't want to be with her in a compromise."

"So?" Jordan gestures in frustration, "We were still—"

"'_Friends_'?" Tino drops the butt and stomps it out. "How long was that going to last?"" He opens the heavy metal door and heads up the dim stairwell.

Jordan follows, irritated, "Isn't it maybe, making it too big of a deal?"

Tino pauses, halfway to the landing, and turns back to Jordan, "Maybe." This is what Jordan wanted to hear, and he momentarily feels vindicated until Tino continues, "Would it be too big a deal if I'd slept with Angela Chase?"

"Huh?" Jordan didn't want to hear that.

Tino continues up the stairs. "You heard me."

"Why would you say that?"

"Don't kid yourself; it could happen."

Thinking it through Jordan shakes his head, "She wouldn't do that."

"She might now," Tino remarks as the devil's advocate. Brows raised as he unlocks loft door Tino puts the question to him again: "But how would you feel?"

"Yeah," Jordan admits, standing his ground in the dimly lit hallway, "I'd be pissed. But it wouldn't be the same thing."

Tino flicks the lights on and moves further into the room, "It'd be close enough."

"So," Jordan takes a step inside, "whad'da I do?"

From the mini-fridge Tino tosses a beer at Jordan in and underhand throw, and says like it's the easiest thing, "Talk to her." Jordan scowls - this isn't helpful - she won't talk to him. Suspecting Jordan won't Tino shrugs it off and remarks breezily, "So, forget it." Tino Drinks his beer and eyes Jordan as he does, "That girl Natasha keeps asking me about you."

Purely a reflex, Jordan asks, "Who?" But just as quickly he moves on; he doesn't actually care. Ruminating on it, bitterly he questions, "How'd she find out?" Tino doesn't know. Jordan exhales. Disgusted with himself, he's left to reflect on his situation; he pops the top to his beer, "Rayanne Graff…" he mutters - he can't believe himself.

* * *

_Posted 9/8/12_


	10. It doesn't have to be this way

**So, this was not my original piece I wrote as the continuation from the end of "In Dreams Begin Responsibilities"; this came much later. For a long time I avoided writing what happened that night because it had been written so many times already - I wanted to subvert expectations (my first piece started two weeks later), but then, I finally wrote this:**

* * *

Angela and Jordan are sitting in his parked car, not much after they'd driven down her street and out of her neighborhood. They aren't talking. Jordan seems content to just be sitting, not especially tuned in to his surroundings, but not absent either. They've already spent most of the day making out and its nice now to just sit there and not be alone. Jordan doesn't register awareness that Angela is sitting there mulling things over while she stares out the dark window. He isn't thinking of anything in particular, but she is.

In time she speaks, possibly after several formations of words and sentences before finally making herself audible. Her tone is less confrontational than matter of fact. She's not out to pick a fight necessarily, but she does intend to be answered; her voice is calm and quiet, and she takes brief pauses between her sentences. "Why did you let me think that that letter was from you." He stops messing with his ring. "I know Brian Krakow wrote the letter. You never wrote that letter." When no response immediately comes she reacts, abandoning her original approach and her frustration and humiliation begin to betray her, but she is still not angry or accusatory – rather she recognizes their scenario and the seeming futility of sitting there. "What are we doing here?" Jordan kind of looks around, obviously taking her question to mean location and not circumstances. She clarifies, "No. I mean _here_. What are we doing _here_?"

He looks at her slowly, "I don't get it..."

Showing her first hint of anger Angela asserts, "No, _I_ don't get it. Why are you doing this?"

Jordan goes on the defensive, "Doing what?"

"That note, the stopping me after class, what is going on?" Her momentum fades and she deflates. "Uh—"

Jordan's totally confused at this point, having taken it for granted that they were past all of this. He wants her, but he's trying to get around saying anything too explicitly, "You know..."

"No, really I don't. I know you slept with my best friend. I know you broke up with me because I wouldn't. I know that I have never once understood where I stood with you since I met you. I know you infuriate me. I know I _thought_ you sent me a tremendously heartfelt letter apologizing. I thought you were sorry. ... I know I feel incredibly stupid..." She is open, _almost_ vulnerable as she continues – she is not angry in this moment, "But I do not know why you're doing this."

"Look—" Either at a loss or unwilling to say anything closer to the truth he settles on, "I thought we were friends." Jordan's failure to say all that he meant makes the word 'friends' come out sounding limp and ineffectual, but he tries not to hear it.

She looks at him, "I don't know what you call this, but I don't feel like you're my friend. I feel – I feel terrible, _all_ the time when you're around."

"That's not true." She rolls her eyes and huffs. This does not derail him. "What about today?"

Angela's voice has gone numb, "Misunderstanding."

"A 'misunderstanding'?" Jordan challenges her. He's not buying her detached apathy.

"False pretenses."

In response to her lack of emotion, Jordan's words become aggressive, "So because I didn't write a letter, you hate me?"

He hasn't gotten through and her tone remains matter-of-fact and disinvested, "I hated you because of Rayanne. Now, I just want it to be over."

Jordan continues trying to break through to her, "Look, the Rayanne thing was a mistake. I'm sorry."

This apology is much too late. Now she's just worn out, "It's not about that."

"You haven't talked to me for weeks, you don't even look at me, and it's 'not about that'?"

Because it's easier she acquiesces, "Yeah, I was mad, but it doesn't matter now."

Narrowing his eyes he gruffly he challenges her, "How do you figure?"

"Because you do whatever you want to do, and it has nothing to do with me." This last part is aloud, but is not exactly directed towards Jordan, "None of this is about me."

He's still challenging her, "If it's not about you, then why am I here?"

"You're the only one who knows that."

Jordan's fully irritated, "All right, forget it." He looks away.

"Forgotten."

After a few moments he asks, not exactly nicely, "So, you want to go home?"

"I'd rather walk." She's angry and relishes the opportunity to be difficult.

This has pissed him off. "What, you can't even be in the same car as me? You're that angry." He looks at her, gesturing, "So what was today about?"

Tired, Angela shakes her head, "Nothing. It wasn't anything."

Jordan confronts her in absolute frustration, "God. You know you like me."

"I used to like you," she wearily amends.

Jordan's eyes roll. "This _is_ about Rayanne."

"It's about everything. It's just all over. Like you said, 'forget it'."

"God damn it Angela, stop." This startles her – she'd been in control of the conversation for a while and had taken it for granted – she wasn't expecting him to call her on it. "Stop being so damned defensive. It doesn't have to be like this."

For the fist time she's open-minded, but still sounds detached and subdued, "Maybe not. But this feels like the only way I can be right now."

He tries again, "I want– I want things to be okay."

Defenses down, she tries to explain, "I don't feel at all safe around you."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

They sit there in his car, quiet for a really long time. It feels like the end of the conversation. Once or twice Jordan's hand moves towards the ignition, but he never starts the car. Angela is mostly looking out the window, wanting to be away from there, but she's relatively willing to wait until Jordan decides to leave.

He exhales, "This is not what I expected tonight to be like."

She nods, "I know." More time passes.

Eventually, staring off and shaking his head, Jordan speaks, but not especially to her, "I was actually happy today."

"I was too."

He turns on her, challenging her, "And now you don't feel 'safe'? Now I 'do whatever I want' screw everybody else?" He looks at her, partially waiting for an answer, then shakes his head, accusing her, "You want it this way." Angela looks at him and he continues trying to bully her into responding, "You're scared, and you like all the conflict because it makes you feel grown up."

"Shut up."

"You want it this way," he pushes.

"Believe me, I don't."

Determined, he appeals to her, "Then, just move past it."

Angela looks at him with aggression, "Why?"

This is the moment he either says it or he doesn't and there will not be another chance. He starts, "Because..." Angela thinks this is all there is, and it is nowhere near to being enough, she starts to look away— "I want you. Angela."

She lifts her eyes to him, finally open to what he has to say, "Why?"

Held in her gaze he freezes, "I don't know. … There's something about you."

This wasn't enough. She shakes her head, "We're too different. And I can't meet your certain expectations." She doesn't mean sex. She isn't that person he needs her to be: quiet, cool, apathetic, nonplussed in-crowd outsider. She can't play his games, and she's reconsidering if she ever really wanted to. He isn't deterred.

"We'll work it out." He looks at her, his long lashes fluttering over those blue eyes that won't stay still as they study her solemn face, "And you have expectations too." Jordan knew what she was doing all those time she'd tried to force him into a role she probably dreamed up back in seventh grade. He wants her to say yes, but he's not getting there without being up front. When he speaks again he means it, "But we can try..." He's finally reached her, he can tell; she looks at him softly in spite of herself, almost momentarily wantonly. Though he's said very little, she'd never dreamed he'd work this hard to get her.

'_I could kill myself for caving this way– after everything_,' she thinks to herself as his gaze intensifies; she can feel it'll only be moments before their lips meet. Jordan reaches across the car to touch her face, the effect is immediate, like her entire epidermis has melted. He kisses her slowly, she doesn't move away. '_But then, maybe that's exactly what I'm doing_.' The kiss lasts a bit longer and then she breaks away.

Tucking her hair she settles back into her seat, "I better get back."

Jordan considers this a bit before responding. "Okay." He turns and starts the car.

* * *

Now parked across the street from Angela's house, it seems as if Angela has been quiet for a while and has slipped back into her subdued state as she mulls something over for herself.

Jordan looks over to her, breaking the silence, "What?"

"Nothing." He hasn't stopped looking at her, "Only," she looks at him, "not lying was something I thought I could count on you for."

He's more than earnest, "It is."

Dubious, she interrogates, "Yeah?"

"_ Yeah."

She swallows, and nods, "Okay."

Jordan touches her hair, brushing it away from her face, "Okay." He kisses her and she lets him, guardedly returning the kiss until she pulls away.

When she does pull away she looks him dead on, "Is this a mistake?"

He doesn't want to think about that. He'd just kissed her, he doesn't want to talk this over again. The past few days, with Brian, the stupid letter, her _mom_, and now her, he's gone out further on a limb than he ever has before, about anything - he doesn't want it to be a mistake. "Shh." He kisses her again, his hands in her hair. Jordan's done talking - they're so close.

After a moment or two she breaks away. "I've gotta go."

Balanced between meaning and characteristic Catalano-nonchalance he asks, "Should I swing by in the morning?"

Angela looks from Jordan to Brian's house; when she answers him it's a little drawn out and distracted, "Yeah, okay." She climbs out and closes the door. There is a short moment when they look at each other, and then she's walking up the path to her door. Jordan's car remains parked on the street. Just as she opens the door and turns around he drives off.

* * *

Upstairs, Angela pops her head into her mother's room, "I'm back."

Patty looks up from her book, "How'd everything work out?"

Angela half-smiles and answers, sounding a little tired, "I don't really want to talk about it." She looks to her mother, "Is that all right?"

Patty looks at her, "Of course."

Graham comes out of the bathroom having just showered. "Hey."

"Hi." With subdued interested Angela asks, "So how'd your thing go?"

For an instant Graham hesitates before smiling and answering, "It was ... great." Unnoticed by his wife and daughter, Graham pauses, stuck on thinking about something; when he comes out of it Graham changes the subject, "I'm starving though." Placing a hand on Angela's shoulder as he passes by her in the doorway he leaves his bedroom and heads downstairs.

Angela watches Graham head down the hallway and after a little while of just lingering in the doorway she says to her mother, "I just wanted to tell you I'm home."

Patty smiles mildly, "Thank you."

"Jordan's giving me a ride to school tomorrow." She's said it casually, as a kind of 'by the way' thing, but it communicates much more than what she is actually saying, and Patty understands the full meaning.

She smiles again. "Okay."

"Well," Angela says, "'night,"

"Goodnight."

* * *

The following morning Angela is sitting on the Chase front porch with a mug of hot chocolate. Jordan pulls up and she stands and walks to the car and gets in.

"Morning," she says.

"Hey." He looks over to her as Angela's putting her seatbelt on and juggling the hot beverage. "Come here." She turns in his direction and he kisses her. He smiles at her, "Morning." Jordan turns back and starts the car. "Don't spill that." He pulls into the street and heads for school.

* * *

The ride to school was quiet and it's left Jordan feeling a little unsure about things he thought they'd already settled. "Angela, I wanna be clear 'bout where we left things last night..."

"Okay..."

"Cuz," he's searching for the way to say it, "it still seems like, you're– It seems like you don't care."

She knows what he's talking about. "You're right." She swallows. "I don't."

"Because...?" He'd been hoping that he'd misread things. Apparently he hadn't. '_Is this ever going to just end?_'

Angela shifts in her seat to face him more, "I was angry, and I was hurt, and I've lost a friendship, and it's all very recent, and I don't know how well I knew you in the first place, and it's recent, and so there's a certain point where you have to stop caring."

"Okay," he says, struggling to figure it out, "but you kissed me. Last night, and today. You're in my car now, so..."

"It's hard."

"See, part of you is angry, and part of you is hurt or scared; part of it's pride, but part of you just wants to be here." He waits for her to respond, watching her reaction, "I'm not going to say anything to convince you."

"I know." After all he finally said last night, which, if she really lets herself think about it, still wasn't all that much, Angela knows nothing more in the world than the fact that Jordan Catalano's not going to do anything more to get her. He's not going to debase himself with pressuring her into being with him. He'll wait – the next minute or two – for her to decide, and then that'll be it. More than four months worth of back and forth and a whole lot of entry-level heartache and humiliation's come down to this. She wanted him, and now, by the strangest sequence of events, he's hers to have – and she doesn't even know what 'having him' means to him – she just has to decide: _in the end, is it worth it?_

She almost gets out of the car. She almost tells him to go to hell. Or maybe for him to 'have a great life, but goodbye'. _But where would that leave her, and who would she be kidding?_ She still wants him so damn much and she's never been closer to having him. Sometimes, our hearts want what they want, more than they want to be safe, or careful, or right.

Breathing in, Angela looks him squarely in the eye, "_Don't _– mess me up."

"A—" He starts to respond, but he doesn't know exactly what he wants to say. He bites his lips then pushes on, "Angela, none of it. None of it was on purpose."

"You realize that just makes you all the more treacherous." He flinches. Though she'd almost given in, something in her makes her speak, "Why am I even supposed to believe you want this?" As she continues, she's not accusing him so much as reminding him, "You did not want this. You made it really clear, in multiple ways, you did not want this."

He looks at her, and instead of taking the bait he studies her and what she's said. He purses his lips, "That's, not—" But Jordan cuts himself off. He can't explain it anymore than he has. "'I don't want to be with you?' Were you there yesterday? In the hall, in my car?" He can tell she doesn't want to admit to his point. It's time to level with her, "All, _that_? That's not what this is about." He looks at her hard, "You know why I'm here. And why you're here." She does. He can see her teetering. He knows, he has known, for months he's known, she wants him. He thought he'd screwed it up, that she'd hate him forever, but he gets now that that's not it – it's her pride, and her fear. _At least that gives him a shot_.

As she thinks, he looks away, looks back, exhales, then takes the keys from the ignition. "Let's go." She does not move. _'What is he doing? Is it over?_' Angela cannot decipher his motives. Jordan meets her gaze, "This is trust thing." He leans across her and pops open her door, "Starts, with getting you to class on time."

She looks at him, expressionless until she speaks, "I don't need you for that."

"Yeah, well, my point's that I'm not 'messing you up'. Get outta my car."

"You know that's not what I meant."

He shrugs. "Get out."

In spite of herself, she half chuckles, and climbs out, "Wow."

Jordan's out too, locking his doors and crossing over to her. He hands her her backpack. "I know you're in." He heads off toward the main entrance but turns back when she's not beside him. He looks at her in momentary earnestness, "It won't happen again." With that he takes her hand and leads her through the parking lot. They merge into the crowd of other students heading towards their homerooms, and as she walks by his side, so close to him, her hand firmly in his, she isn't displeased to be there.

He swings her hand in his, and friendly-like he says, "Don't you mess me up."

"Deal."

* * *

_Posted 11/7/12_


	11. Life in progress

_**Revised a little of course, and switched over from script format (and added Tino), but this is the first real piece of MSCL Fanfic I wrote (back when I was trying to write continuation episodes).**_

**#20 Life in Progress**

* * *

_List of New characters (they're all their, but they do not all have lines):_ _Libby & Walter: Libby is Vivian's (Patty's mother) cousin (the one complaining about MSG etc. in "Other People's Mothers"); Walter is Libby's husband (he is an older man, wears glasses); Don and Tammy: it is their house. Tammy is Libby and Walter's daughter, Don is her husband (this is his second marriage); Dustin (18) is Don's son from his first marriage, and Channing (10) is their younger son; Jeremy is Don's brother; Jan & Kurt: Kurt is Tammy and Patty's cousin, Jan is his wife; Laura (9) (the little girl in the red dress with the Game Boy) is Jan and Kurt's daughter_

* * *

Saturday morning Patty stands at the base of the stairs shouting up, "Angela! We're waiting!"

Angela doesn't try to hide her annoyance, "I'm coming." The last thing she wants is to leave town, not now that everything's barely settled and still so up in the air. Angela moves grudgingly down the stairs carrying an overnight bag and a portable CD player. She follows Patty, who, to Angela's further irritation, is smiling with satisfaction, out the door to the station wagon where Danielle is already waiting.

Graham locks the house door behind them, takes Angela's bag for her, and then opens the driver side door. He turns back to Angela, "All set?" Angela rolls her eyes as she unenthusiastically climbs into the car.

Driving down the road Angela looks out the window, watching as the trees and houses fly past in a steady blur. '_We were going on vacation, a weekend trip to my mom's cousins in California, PA. (Was there ever more a depressing name for a town? Maybe Paris, Texas.) I used to love vacations, because you could show up in a new town as a totally new person._' Angela sighs and puts on her headphones. '_It's only now that I realize how false vacations are, because you can't, take a vacation from yourself_.' She turns up the volume on Oasis and closes her eyes as she leans her forehead against the window.

* * *

Patty, Angela and Danielle are in the bathroom of a roadside diner on their way to their relatives. Angela is in a stall but clearly just to get away, even for a little bit. She is standing with a vacant, slightly pained expression, her eyes traveling aimlessly over graffiti until she comes across the words: _WHY THIS WAY?_ Angela evidently sympathizes with this sentiment and her eyes shut momentarily. '_I sometimes wonder about the people who write things on bathroom stalls – do they plan it? Do they come in with the specific intent of writing something? Or do they walk around with knives and pens in their pockets just in case a thought strikes them? What are these people feeling? Or rather, what is it they should be _doing_, instead of—'_

"Angela?" Patty calls. Angela opens her eyes. "Are you still in here?"

Angela flushes the toilet with her foot. "Yes." Almost painfully she opens the stall door and crosses to the sink to wash her hands. She wears the same put upon expression she's worn so many times this year. As life grows more complicated, it's harder to act the happy undistracted daughter with her mother. Everything back home is still pressing on her mind.

Patty's not having any of it and she tilts her head and calls Angela out, "Ok, Angela. What is it? What's bothering you?"

In complete denial there is a problem, Angela goes on the defensive, "Nothing."

"I know what it is," Danielle preens.

"Danielle, shut up."

"Angela," Patty's weary of putting up with her sullenness, "please." Pausing from this conversation she looks at Angela who is still ever-so-slowly drying her hands, "Are you finished? You're father is waiting." Angela nods and throws the paper towel away as she slowly follows her mother and sister out the bathroom. As Patty moves to open the restroom door, holding a paper towel in her hand to do so, she turns to Angela and Danielle, continuing her previous point, "Can we all just work on being in better moods when we get there?" It isn't so much of a question as a command. A command in the form of an upbeat rally-cry. Angela follows after her sister and mother.

'_That stupid scrawling on the bathroom stall was still on my mind: WHY THIS WAY? Exactly. Why _this_ way? Why does getting back with Jordan have to drag Brian Krakow into the mix? Why does Jordan finally saying something real to me come with the knowledge that it was all orchestrated lies? Why do I find out after all this time what's in Brian Krakow's head, when Jordan's right there waiting for me and there's nothing else to do but go with him? Why is the one way I get Jordan Catalano plagued with doubt and questions and strings and awkwardness? When is anything going to be easy, and good? And happy? And sure-footed?'_

* * *

Patty, Graham, Danielle, and Angela stand before the front door of their cousins' house. Patty looks a little anxious; Danielle is looking less than thrilled.

Just as Patty moves to ring the doorbell Graham groans, "Here we go. Another weekend of—" Patty moves her hand away from the bell, leaving it un-rung till Graham's said his piece, "slideshows and self-righteous advice."

"Shhhh." She moves to ring the bell again.

"Eewww!" Danielle wines. "Slideshows?!"

"_Danielle_," Patty warns her. Again removing her hand from the bell she turns to Graham in frustration, "Why are you like this? Why do you _always_ do this?"

"Do what?"

"Oh, you know what. Waiting till we're at the door to say something." She turns back and prepares to ring the bell again; hand poised to press down Patty says one last thing, "Listen, you are all to be gracious and pleasant while we are here. _All_ of you." In a much less severe tone, almost cheerful, she asserts, "This is going to be fun." At last Patty rings the bell. Angela looks doubtfully at Graham, to which he flashes his fake 'let's make the best of it' smile.

The door opens and there they are — a multitude of enthusiastic family members waiting with open arms.

* * *

Patty sits in the living room with Libby, her mother's cousin, her daughter Tammy, and Jan, the wife of a cousin. Libby, still sporting her silver bob, is as regal and ebullient as ever, "Patricia, how is your work going?"

"Oh, well, things are pretty exciting right now. We're making some changes that are really going to help Wood and Jones compete with those larger companies. We're moving into the world of high-speed copiers — we'll be able to do offset."

Though her enthusiasm is sincere, Patty's lost her audience's interest, and all the response she gets is Libby's dry, "Oh, isn't that wonderful. Your father's been talking about that for years."

"Well," a perturbed Patty measures herself, "ah, no, actually Daddy hasn't been talking about this. It's bran—"

* * *

Upstairs Angela and Danielle are unpacking in a guest bedroom and connecting hall bathroom. Angela's washed her hands and looks round now for a towel, finding only rose and teal velvety decorative hand towels. "I hate guest towels," Angela bemoans. "You never know if you should use them, then there's never anything else for you to use, so you leave them like they haven't been used. And_ then_ you wonder how many people have done the same, and how often they ever really get washed."

"Ew."

Angela moves past Danielle and into the bedroom, "I know."

* * *

"Of course he has Patricia.," Libby smiles over her. "It's wonderful to see so little has changed at Wood and Jones, that you're keeping with all of your father's plans."

Patty's hurt by this but she's unsure if she should trouble to contradict this statement. "Actually, Aunt Libby, what we're doing now is brand new to our company."

"Of course, dear." Although Danielle enters the room and stands right in front of Patty, Libby continues, talking right over her, "I remember when your mother and father—"

"Mom," Danielle interrupts.

"Danielle, honey," Patty turns to her with a strained smile, "you interrupted. Please continue Aunt Libby."

"When your parents first—"

"Mom."

"Danielle," Patty smiles. "You're being very rude. You need to wait for whatever it is until a person is finished with their conversation."

"But I can't find my toothbrush."

"That hardly qualifies as an emergency." Patty laughs a little at her daughter, not because she thinks it is funny, but because in her discomfort she thinks it is socially expected to discredit a child's concerns. "Go upstairs, please; we'll find your toothbrush later."

"But I want to brush now. I have all these little popcorn kernels stuck in my teeth."

Embarrassed, Patty loses her patience, "Danielle. Upstairs."

"Honey," Tammy interjects, "why don't you go find Laura."

"Yes," Jan says, "I know she was really looking forward to seeing you this weekend." More to Patty than to Danielle she adds, "She has this beautiful new set of paper dolls. They're amazing." As Jan continues to speak, Danielle rolls her eyes and slowly leaves the room. The women now carry on their conversation as if they had never been interrupted.

* * *

By some chance Graham's found himself a moment of quiet and sits alone in the family room reading the newspaper. Danielle spots him as she passes by and walks into the room. Graham is seated in a large armchair and Danielle in turn lazily plops herself against one of the chair arms. He winks at her, reads for a little longer, then speaks to her without taking his eyes off the paper. "Where's Laura?"

Danielle sounds annoyed, or grumpy, "I don't know."

"Weren't you looking forward to seeing her?"

"Not really," Danielle mutters.

Graham is neither laying on pressure nor making an accusation when he cocks a brow at her and says, "I thought you were friends."

Danielle takes a moment; she's not quite sure how to explain what she is feeling. "She still wants to play with dolls."

"Well," Graham considers, "_you_ have dolls."

"Dad. I _have_ dolls. I don't _play_ with dolls."

"Oh," Graham's amused with this distinction. "It might be nice to not be so grown up for a little while. You know, Dani, as you grow up, you'll have less and less opportunities to just, play."

Danielle gives her father an incredulous look. "Dad. I don't want to play."

"Oh. Well, then here. Maybe you'd like to read the business section." He hands her a part of the newspaper, smiling as she sighs and takes it.

"You don't get it." Graham is amused.

Graham Chase and his younger daughter, both feeling a bit out of place in this house, sit quietly and read the front page and business section respectively.

Patty enters and stops when she spots Danielle, "I thought you were playing with Laura." She looks around, "Where's Angela?"

Danielle doesn't look up from the headlines she's not actually reading; "Upstairs."

Disinterestedly Patty shifts through the newspaper sections still lying on the coffee table, "What is she doing up there?" In response, Graham shakes his newspaper to re-stiffen it. Patty turns to Danielle. "Danielle, why don't you go upstairs and check on her."

"I'm reading the newspaper," she says without lifting her eyes to her mother.

Patty is unswayed. "Tell Angela I want to see her down here within five minutes." Danielle huffs, drops the newspaper, and goes upstairs.

Patty sighs and sits on the arm of Graham's chair and leans against him, which knocks his paper some. "Hey!"

"You weren't really reading it," she asserts.

Graham chuckles. "Says you." He wraps his arm around her waist.

"Did you hear from Hallie Lowenthal when the money would come through?"

At the mention of this name Graham's eyes dart and he scratches his forehead. "Ah," he clears his throat, "earliest mid-week."

Getting comfortable Patty snugs up against him, and leans her head against his in a confidential manner, "I think it's marvelous you're doing this Graham."

He looks at her, and smiles. "Well, you're pretty marvelous yourself."

"I am not," she deflects. Patty runs her hand through her hair and lets it drop to her lap, "There's nothing, extraordinary, about running a print shop."

"There is, Patty. The way you've taken responsibility for your family, your father," he looks at her, "me."

She looks at him and smiles, and rests her head against his again. After a moment she speaks, "Honestly, I'm going to miss having you home so much."

Graham chuckles, "Well, good."

* * *

Angela's sprawled across her bed, pretending to do homework. '_The thing about vacations is, that you're supposed to be able to like, take a break from your life—_' Angela looks down and realizes she's been doodling Jordan's name. Embarrassed, she quickly scribbles over it and rips out the sheet of notebook paper to crumple. '_But, that like never happens, because there is nothing for you to do to keep your mind off of what you left behind._' Angela drops her head to the bed and lies still, blankly staring at the wall.

Danielle enters and crosses the room; standing over Angela she asks, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, Danielle; go play."

"No. It's like totally boring here."

In a low voice, not quite willing to agree with her little sister, Angela lifts herself up and repositions herself so she is leaning against the brushed pine headboard. "No kidding." She looks at Danielle, "But I thought you loved coming here."

More assured now with something common between them, Danielle too sits on Angela's bed, "No way; Channing thinks he's so cool, and Uncle Jeremy is kind of weird."

"He thinks he's being funny."

"Well, I wish he'd stop. And anyway, Laura and I aren't friends anymore."

Losing interest already, Angela only asks to be civil, "Yeah? Why not?"

"Because—"

"Come on girls, get downstairs." Standing in the doorway, Patty interrupts them. "Danielle, Laura is looking for you." Angela and Danielle reluctantly get up, slowly and dragging their feet. "Angela, everyone has been asking for you, why are you hiding up here?"

"I'm not hiding."

Walking them down the hallway and staircase, Patty looks to Angela pointedly, "Oh yeah?"

"I was taking a break," Angela mutely defends.

"'A break?'"

Angela goes with it, "Yeah."

"_From your vacation?_"

"It's _your_ vacation."

Irritated, Patty confronts her with sharp whispers so that the other family members do not overhear, "Angela, _enough_. I don't know why it is so hard for you to spend a little time with your family, but I expect you to be polite and warm with your relatives this weekend."

"It's not '_hard_'…" Angela attempts at an explanation.

Appearing on the scene, Graham temperately sets a hand on each of their shoulders, asking, "What's going on?"

"Nothing." And Patty walks away.

Left there, in a hallway she never wanted to be in, in a situation she couldn't clearly see herself out of, Angela looks at her father for reprieve, then rolls her eyes and looks away when she recognizes defeat, "Nothing."

* * *

Outside the Chase house Rayanne Graff stands, preparing herself to knock on Angela Chase's front door. She almost does, when from behind her comes a voice.

"They're not home." Unbeknownst to Rayanne, on his bike on his way out for the night, Brian'd circled back to watch her when he spotted her climbing the Chase porch steps. Rayanne now turns, first startled, then annoyed. "They're out of town." He swerves round again. When she says nothing he slows down and drops his foot to the asphalt. He stands there in the street, astride his bicycle looking up at her. Rayanne fidgets. She doesn't want to be seen this way. _Not here, not by him. Coming here, for this purpose, was hard enough, she didn't need a witness. Especially him. He'd already seen too much._ Still he looks at her. "So…" he ventures, re-gripping his handlebars, "are the two of you talking now?"

Instead of answering, which would have meant lying, or telling the hard truth, Rayanne turns it around on him, asking, "Are _you_?" She knows what he did. _Stupid Krakow, such a sap._ But even if she hadn't heard, she knew, everyone knew, what he felt for Angela Chase. _Silly really, for a boy to like her. She had little to offer yet. Especially to someone like him. Her confused virginal thing might work for Jordan Catalano, but add blonde, overly curly hair and a bike and that was Brian Krakow too. What good would those two be to one another?_ Rayanne shakes her head; she does not understand crushes.

Brian's a little startled Rayanne seems to know about the letter. But then again, if Rickie knew, _of course Rayanne would know_. Brian swallows.

"I heard what happened," she presses, aiming to make him uncomfortable.

"Nothing happened."

"_Yeah_," she scoffs, "_that's_ what I heard." Brian's eyes shut involuntarily. But he regroups.

"Like I said, they're not home." He looks at her, "Don't you have, I don't know, somewhere to _be_?"

"Don't you mean something to _film_?" she fires back.

"Something to be _chained_ to?"

"Hm." She looks at him with tempered respect. Her sudden shift in demeanor's left him playing catch up. "Wow," she muses.

They're quiet for a while. After some time Brian quietly asks, the judgment now absent from his voice, "So, what? Are you here to apologize?" Rayanne turns on him with a face; its not easy to admit to being wrong and she certainly doesn't want to do it with the likes of Brian Krakow looking on, but she softens when he doesn't seem intimidated. She likes that. Rather, he just waits, listening.

"I just figured, since…" she starts. Brian nods.

"I don't how much has changed," he offers. He's quiet for some time then observes prophetically, "We're both still outside."

* * *

Seated on the front steps of her cousins' porch, Angela sits reading _The Catcher in the Rye_. The wind rustles through the trees and she looks up to take in the day, warm, like it was already spring instead of early February. Though she tries, she cannot return her attention to the book. '_So far, I had been ignoring the whole thing about the letter, and Jordan and Rayanne… and Brian. It just seemed easier. I mean, what could I really say? To any of them? Jordan and I were pretty much back together. Kind of. Things were sort of, weird… With Brian too. I haven't been taking the bus, so it's been pretty easy to avoid him so far. … It's just too… _difficult_? To deal with_.' She shuts her eyes and shakes the thought from her head. '_I am the most horrible person._'

A car door slamming shut breaks her from her thoughts and she watches as a college-aged guy walks up the front pathway shouldering a duffel bag and squinting into the sunlight. Angela winces. She hoped never to see Dustin again. Her aunt's stepson. The one who'd mostly grown up with his mother and her new family outside Allentown. The one who'd kissed her under false pretenses at that family wedding two years ago.

He is older now and looks more mature than the last time she'd seen him. His hair is a shade darker and not so long. He wears a navy hoodie with 'PITT at Greensburg' printed in gold lettering across the front where he currently attends as a freshman. He didn't know when he got in his car for the hour drive home there'd be distant step-relatives flooding his house and seated on his front porch. He climbs the steps.

"Hey," he acknowledges Angela as he drops his bag on the porch. "My dad's here, right?"

Just then, Tammy, who rejects the qualifier in step-mother, emerges from the house, arms open and super excited. "Dustin! We weren't expecting you!"

"Well, I ran out of clean laundry." He lets his mother hug him. "My dad here?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's inside." Tammy turns into the house calling, "Jeremy! Don! Patty! Dustin's home!" She squeezes Dustin's forearm, "You're staying for the weekend, right? You know the whole family's here." More relatives, some who have just come over for the day, step out onto the porch to greet and hug him. Amongst other conversations as he is ushered towards the house, and his explaining he hadn't exactly planned on staying, Tammy thinks to reintroduce him to Angela, who is standing by this time, mostly because the crowd necessitated it, "And this is Angela; my cousin Patty's daughter. I think that makes her your—"

"She's not my cousin," Dustin cuts her off.

"I guess not," Tammy admits. "It'd be pretty far removed anyway. Plus just through marriage, and then again adoption. Anyway, come inside. Are you hungry?" As the family troops back inside, someone already having picked up Dustin's bag for him, Dustin throws a head-nod in Angela's direction as he moves past, "I know you."

And then Angela is once again alone. Her faces scrunches in humiliated exasperation. She is definitely not thrilled with this new development.

* * *

It's now early evening and Angela, Patty, Libby, Tammy and Jan are in the kitchen preparing dinner. "Well," Patty continues, "Dustin's certainly grown up nicely, hasn't he?"

"Oh yes, and he's just doing wonderfully at the University," Libby praises.

"He's writing for the school's newspaper now," Tammy adds before she exits to fetch some serving platters.

"Does he spend a lot of time here?" Patty asks upon her return.

"Oh, you know, his mother's more than four hours away, and he and Don are so close. And he still has some good friends in town. And," she opens the oven to turn the casserole, "free food and laundry, college boys don't turn that down."

Patty smiles knowingly, "It's so nice, to have him close by."

"And when will you be going to college, dear?" Libby queries. Angela looks up from her mixing but doesn't really say anything.

"Not for a few more years," Patty's compelled to answer for her. _Can't let the conversation lag._ "Angela's a sophomore in high school." Patty heads through to the shag carpeted dining room carrying a dish of buttered vegetables. As she does so she rests her hand on Angela's shoulder and adds warmly, "She's doing great." This vague and generalized report pleases the women and Angela smiles weakly in return.

"It's too bad Dustin stopped seeing that nice girl," Jan remarks, changing the subject. "She was such a sweet girl."

"Yes," Libby concurs, "although, I did not care for her mother."

Jan is in full agreement, "_No_."

Angela's embarrassed, and she's not even sure on who's behalf. She would have guessed Dustin hardly saw this part off them family, but apparently she would have been wrong. She can't believe these women are standing around passing judgment on his love life like this. She'd be mortified if anyone in the family spoke about her that way. Angela tries to imagine her grandparents, Chuck and Vivian, discussing Jordan Catalano this way. She doesn't get very far; she couldn't even picture them in the same room together. '_Did that matter?_' she wonders. '_If I can't picture him even momentarily stepping into that part of my life? Brian already knows my parents, my sister, my grandparents, Uncle Neil—'_

Before she gets too far into comparing the two boys she's interrupted by her grandmother's cousin. "Do you have a boyfriend, dear?" Libby and the other women look at her expectantly.

Angela looks pained and smiles her way out of it, "I think I'll go see if Mom needs help setting the table." Quickly she exits the kitchen as the matriarchs give each other knowing looks.

Angela finds her mother setting the dining table. Passing by as she sets out the ecru napkins in pewter rings at each place setting, Patty whispers to Angela, not critically or bad tempered, "Angela, it's difficult for people to carry on a conversation when only one side is speaking." She clarifies, "You could speak up a little bit; they're just trying to get to know you better."

"_Mom_, they're asking me about my 'love life'."

"Oh, dear," Patty sympathizes. "Well, just smile and be pleasant. Why don't you go tell everyone dinner is nearly ready."

* * *

Seated at the dining table Angela picks at her food and looks around the table. Graham and Don are in some kind of heated disagreement. Angela shakes her head as she lifts a forkful of casserole to her mouth, '_My father always gets into arguments with my mother's family_.' She stares down at her plate, and lowers her fork. '_I suspect it might have something to do with their cooking_.'

"Let's change the subject to something less," Tammy searches for a mediating word, "_topical_."

"Please," Patty seconds.

Don raises his hands as a willing sign for a truce, "You're right."

"So, Angela," Tammy starts; Angela looks up a little stunned. She had been hoping to go through the weekend relatively unnoticed. She did not wish to be the center of everyone's focus. "I've hardly seen you all weekend," Tammy smiles. Angela looks away, averting a meaningful glance from her mother. "How is your life?"

'_How is my life? What was I supposed to say? My life, is… I don't know. _Not_ what I'd expected. In progress? On pause? Slowly getting more confused and complicated with every—_' Angela stops herself and smiles, "Fine."

"Angela," a displeased Patty prompts, "you can say more than that."

And so Angela searches for something more to say; "I like my English class, I guess."

Insufficiently impressed, Patty intercedes; "Angela has been doing a lot of work for the school's play."

"_Our Town_," Angela nods.

"Oh, I love Thornton Wilder!" exclaims Libby. This sets the table conversation in a new direction and takes the focus from Angela.

…

The meal finished, no one but the children have stirred, and Angela looks round the table in what she hopes is concealed misery. '_If anything is actually worse than embarrassing personal questions and absolutely no privacy, then the worst thing about spending time with family is the after-dinner conversation. It never ends, and you can't get up before the grownups do_,' she looks again around the table, '_and they never do_.' Through the hallway Angela can see Danielle playing with Laura and Tammy and Don's son Channing. 'I_f you're little, you can get away with leaving, but…'_ Her eyes turn back to the table and she looks from face to face; Graham looks equally bored and has hardly touched his food, Patty, of course, wears an exaggerated grin. '_It's like you're a prisoner._'

Eventually Dustin stands to excuse himself from the table, "Hey Ma, I'm gonna go meet up with the guys."

"Dustin, Honey," says Jan, "why don't you invite Angela?" Angela is mortified; Dustin stops where he is.

"That would be nice," Tammy agrees. "I'm sure Angela would love to get away."

"No," Angela smiles, "it's okay. Really."

"You sure?" Dustin asks.

"No; thank you." As she is still speaking the words, Dustin's already turned and headed up the stairs to get ready. Angela kind of sinks in her chair.

"Well," Libby's husband Walter says to Graham, "this might be a good time to show you the pictures from our last trip."

"And which trip was that Uncle Walter?" asks Patty.

"We took the old motor home to Mount Rushmore," Don answers for him.

"We told your folks. We must have."

"Lib, did we remember the slides?"

"They're really spectacular photographs," Jan promises Graham. Graham looks to his wife and feigns her same smile.

* * *

The apartment door opens to Rayanne who is leaning against the doorbell in Katimski's hallway. Katimski's partner opens the door, smiles at her, and leaves to get Rickie. Rayanne lingers in the hallway. Like all the places Rickie's stayed over the years, she hasn't quite reached a level of familiar-comfort with the place. Rickie's always felt like somewhat of an intruder in his houses, therefore Rayanne, who ordinarily takes charge wherever she is, has traditionally tread lightly on his behalf. This time circumstances are different, but the habits of hanging back and staying out of the way are nothing new.

"Hey."

She turns back to face him. "Hey." Rayanne messes with her bag. "What're you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing? It's late."

"It's barely nine o'clock. _ So," she gestures offhandedly, like she doesn't really care and she isn't really asking, "what's the deal with Brian Krakow?"

Rickie look at her. "What?"

"I mean," Rayanne messes with her hair, "why is he such a miserable human being?"

Wordlessly Rickie steps aside, leaving the entrance open to her, and tilts his head. "Do you want to come in?"

"In _there_?" Rickie nods. She looks incredulous. "If I do, am I gonna get an hour's worth of notes?"

Rickie laughs. He takes her bag and waits for her to enter. "What do you have against Brian Krakow?" But he knows what she's got against Brian Krakow – same as what Angela chase had going for her all those months ago when they first started hanging at the mall after school. _It's just a matter of time; poor Brian Krakow, he's as good as dead._

* * *

Finally upstairs, Angela, Patty and Danielle are in the girls' bedroom adding additional blankets and putting new cases on extra pillows. "But Mom," Danielle responds to Patty's scolding, "I don't _like_ Laura."

"_Shhh_! Danielle, I _don't_ understand why you're being so mean, you love Laura." Danielle shoots a 'see what I mean' look to Angela, who smiles sympathetically.

"Uh, Mom," Angela intercedes, "do you think it would be alright if I used their phone?"

Patty turns from Danielle to Angela. "_Who_ are you going to call? _Angela_, it's only one weekend with your family. I don't see what there is, so important, that you need to interrupt that with a phone call to a friend who you'll see in a couple of days."

Angela gives up, "Never mind."

"Are you sure you don't want to go out with Dustin?"

"Mom."

"It was very nice of him to ask you."

"_He_ didn't ask me."

"I'm sure he would love for you to go with him."

"I doubt that."

"_I'd_ go," Danielle inserts. Angela shoots her a look.

"He's a very good-looking boy," Patty observes.

Angela's face wrinkles, "Mom. _Eww_."

Patty laughs. "Oh, Angela. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just saying, you haven't exactly been, _happy_, these past few weeks, and you certainly don't seem any happier here; a change of scenery and, just, getting out, might do some good."

"Mom," Angela pleads miserably, "please."

Dropping the last pillow on the bed, Patty gives in. "Okay. Come on Danielle, I'll help you look for your toothbrush." Danielle and Patty exit into the bathroom and Angela exhales a deep breath and collapses backwards onto one of the beds. She lies there for a while, her head slightly hanging over the side. "As if my life didn't suck enough already…" she mutters.

"Sure you don't want to come?" Taken by surprise, Angela shoots her head up and sees Dustin popping his head in through the open doorway. He leans against the door frame and carries with him his duffel bag of newly cleaned clothes as he heads out for the night to stay with his friends.

Quickly she sits up. "Um, no." Angela tucks her hair, "That's okay. Thanks though."

He takes a step inside the room. "I would have asked you anyway."

She doubts that, and she still refuses the invitation, "No, really."

"'Cuz you know," he kicks aside a stray decorative pillow, "the family can be kind of crazy. I could be your only chance for escape." Angela hesitates. "Come on." He jerks his head towards the door, and hesitantly Angela pulls herself off the bed. "Cool." Angela partly smiles, and once more tucks her hair.

* * *

The adults are gathered in the family room where Walter's slideshow is underway. "Ah! This is the motor park we stayed on the third night."

Speaking to Graham, Don contributes, "Our neighbors, Joyce and Peter, recommended it to us. They stay there all the time. Did I tell you they're remodeling?"

"No," Graham shakes his head. The slide changes.

"Oh," Tammy exclaims as Walter continues the slideshow, "yes! All new appliances, slate countertops—"

"You're a cooking man Graham, what do you think of slate?" Don asks. "And all those fancy appliances? I mean, stainless steel or not, it still gets the job done, am I right?" Graham starts to answer but Don cuts him off. "What kind of countertops do you have?"

"Ah!" Walter says as he hits a particular slide. "And this is the river where I hooked that enormous rainbow."

Libby turns to Tammy, "Was that the day we had lunch at that cute little café?" The two women turn to gush to Patty and Graham, "Oh, it was _darling_." As Libby continues to speak Graham smiles and nods with a glazed expression. Undetected, Patty squeezes his hand.

* * *

Bundled up as it's turned out to be a cold night, Angela and Dustin, their breath visible as they walk, sidestep patches of lingering snow and head towards his buddy's house. "These guys go to Cal U," he explains. "Known 'em forever." They walk towards a small house, and she follows him around the side to a gate that takes them back behind the house. There are about nine kids back there, all about eighteen or nineteen years old, some smoking cigarettes, all drinking beers, gathered around a small pit fire. As he walks past, people greet Dustin and nod or smile. Some say 'hey' to Angela. It is a comfortable atmosphere, and though she's younger in age, she doesn't feel particularly out of place. Five months ago she would have, but a lot's changed since then.

A guy who, Angela can't help but notice, has the most amazing hair – dark, and rich luscious curls, nothing like what she's seen before, comes up and wraps Dustin in a hug, "Dustin!"

"Hey, Timmy, this is Angela." Tilting his head a little sideways towards Angela, Dustin completes the introductions, "This is Aaron's house."

"Hi," Angela smiles.

"Angela's a causality of a family weekend at my place."

"Got it," the majestically beautiful boy nods. "Hey, Angela! Bro, I got that thing I gotta show you in the house."

"Cool." Dustin grabs a beer and hands one to Angela, "I'll just be a minute." She nods and looks around as they head up the small steps into the back of the house. She hesitates, then lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a small sip.

* * *

In bed, after more than an hour's campaign to extricate themselves, Graham and Patty lie side by side looking up at the ceiling.

"If I have to hear one more story about their vacations…"

"Graham."

Graham ignores her. "I mean, a person should _ask_ a person if they're interested before they launch into an hour-long story about Mount Rushmore. '_Actually_ Don, I'm _not_ interested.' I'd rather go through _root canal_ than listen to that man's stories."

"Well, Graham, what are we supposed to talk about? You disagree on everything."

"I don't know." Graham lifts his hands behind his head. "_And_," he starts in again, "he always tells me stories about his neighbors, like I have any idea who he's talking about. You notice they don't even ask us how we're doing."

"We exchange letters," Patty offers as a weak justification.

"I don't even know why we come. It seems like the only thing they want to know about is Angela's personal life."

Patty repositions her pillow, "Who doesn't?" Graham kind of laughs and Patty, smiling wryly, moves right up next to him. Graham wraps his arm around her shoulder. "Graham, I'm sorry you're having such a miserable weekend." Benignly incredulous he cocks an eyebrow at her. "I am." She drops her head to his chest, tiredly admitting, "I know they can be—"

He strokes her hair and back, speaking slowly, "It's okay."

Lifting her head Patty smiles up at him, "Can I make it up to you?" He kisses her and pulls her down.

* * *

Angela and Dustin sit side by side on a bench a little ways from the fire. Angela's cheeks are very flushed, she is just a little bit drunk. "And wait," Dustin takes a drink, "what's the other guy's name?" He's been letting her talk him through it all.

"Jordan. Catalano." Angela drinks. "'Jordan Catalano.'"

"No, the other guy's name." Dustin's picked a splinter from the weathered wood bench and flicked it into the flames.

"Oh. Brian Krakow. … Wait," she smiles vaguely, "what were we talking about?" Angela's never been drunk before, and she's just barely that. She likes this feeling, warm and dizzy, but she's not following the conversation well. He clues her in.

"About why you said that your life sucks."

"I said that? When?"

"When you were collapsed across my old bed."

"Oh." '_It was so strange; I didn't even know why I was telling him all this. I hardly knew this guy. And I'd spent the last two years severely disliking him. But everyone back home was already too involved to be objective, and where Jordan Catalano's involved I'm unable to be objective. And so, it just sort of happened. … And the whole time I kept wondering if he remembered ever kissing me._' Angela handles the glass bottle, and takes another half sip. "It just seems like everything is changing too fast…" She thinks for a while, and shakes her head. "I'm not sure what I should be feeling."

He looks at her, and takes a drink. "How did you feel before you read this note? What'd you want then?" Dustin's not particularly invested in this story, but he's willing enough to listen and offer a dispassionate masculine take.

"Huh." He's putting things in ways she hadn't ever considered and for the umpteenth time she thinks it all over…

"Just forget about it, it tells you nothing."

At this Angela's pitch involuntarily rises, "What do you mean?" She'd spent so many hours with that letter, reading it, thinking about it, breathing it. More than any written text she'd ever read, that letter put into words what she'd been waiting her whole life to hear. _How could it tell her nothing?_ She begins to protest, "It—"

"Okay," he reasons, laying it out for her. "It tells you one guy might like you, but can't own it, and the other guy likes you, and wants you to know it. It doesn't matter that this guy Jordan didn't write it, he gave it to you. Am I wrong?"

Angela's confused. _Was it that simple?_ This thing she's been fixating on – Brian, Jordan, the letter, the thing with Raynanne, the kiss, that thing, in the street light, that was maybe, almost, something like a kiss – _did it all amount to that?_ _'Brian wants her but Jordan wants her more?' And was that accurate? It seems so farfetched._ She exhales and her face relaxes. "I don't know; let's stop talking about it." Angela leans her head back against the fence. Her eyes wander a little while, then she turns back towards him. "Have you ever read _The Catcher in the Rye_?"

"Twice. In high school."

"Does he ever end up talking to Jane Gallagher? _ Does he ever find out if she's changed?"

"Don't remember." He smiles, and sets his hand on her knee as he stands. "Listen, Angela, I'm sorry about that thing at the wedding, the kiss. Guys can kind of be jerks when they're in high school." He walks away, leaving her to consider this. She puts down her beer bottle.

* * *

Back in Three Rivers, Brian's leaving a friend's house, getting on his bike to ride home in the dark. A few blocks down he rides past a small house party where parked outside he recognizes a certain red convertible. He stops. His eyes shut, then unwillingly he looks towards the porch. He sees a few girls he recognizes, girls who wouldn't recognize him, and with them a guy he thinks he recognizes as Rayanne's friend Tino. He's smoking a pipe. Not the glass pipes he's seen sold in that incense-wreaking, hippie-Birkenstock, strange-candle-selling, trippy-poster-carrying shop on Roscoe Avenue, but a real one, oak or something, the kind of thing Angela Chase's grandfather would smoke. _Was he for real? Was this an affectation to seem cool?_ _Probably just something he picked up in whoever's house they're in._ He's making them laugh. The girls. And one of them kisses him. Brian's struck by the guy's reaction – totally unfazed, like it's expected, like it happens all the time, _which_, he guess, _it probably does_. _Probably happens for everyone, but him._ Brian shuts his eyes as he moves to push off and continue on his way.

"Hey!" it came from the porch. Brian stops and looks back. "Yeah, you. Mr. curlicue on the Huffy. Get up here." Brian doesn't know what to do. _Why was he being called up there? What does he have to say to those people? How does he look a bunch of cool girls in the eye after being called 'curlicue'?_ He knows one thing – he doesn't want to be anywhere where Jordan Catalano is. Not now, not for a long time from now. _Too soon. Too fucking, soon. But what was he to do?_ _He was being called up. Could a person just ride off? Is that done?_ "Hey, while you're out there deliberating, the solar system just hatched another planet. Giddy up."

Brian doesn't see a way around it and he un-straddles his bike, walks it to the front lawn where he slowly lets it fall on its side, then walks the dozen or so paces to the porch and slowly climbs the red concrete steps to the others. "It's not a Huffy."

"Yeah, I know what kind of bike it is," Tino smirks. Tino stops and looks him over. Inside there's music blaring and Brian can see movement of ten or so people through the front windows. "You're the tutor. The brain kid." Tino puffs on his pipe like it's a prop he's used every day of his life.

"That coming from the no-brain kid?"

Tino can't contain his laugh. "Better not let Catalano hear you talk that way." Brian kind of stands down. He'd only half meant it anyway, and he was not looking for trouble. "You here for 'im?"

"Who? Oh. No. _God no._"

"He's inside." Tino leans back toward the window with the intention of shouting through it—

"No. That's okay. I'm on my home."

"Right. From where?"

"Uh… my friend Ryan? Up the street?"

"Friend-Ryan-up-the-street who?"

"Danes."

"_Ryan Danes_?! No way! He lives up the street?!" Tino's clearly messing with him. Or, it's clear enough to everyone but Brian. He doesn't know how to react.

"Okay... So... I'm gonna get home."

Tino lets him turn and start towards the steps before he says anything more. "You, ah, prob'ly shouldn't 'a done it."

Brian stops. But does not yet turn around. "Done what?"

"'Done what?' I like that. Wrote that note." Brian turns around. He glances first at the girls, but they're doing anything but paying attention to him. He looks at Tino, who shrugs.

"Mean, it won't be a mistake, if they end up making it work. 'S still a little too unsure to be seen. But, if they do, he'll be good to her, don't worry 'bout that. And he's happy, so, I'm happy; but, yeh, probably shouldn't 'a done it."

Brian swallows. "Why's that?"

Tino laughs at Brian for still trying to play it cool. "_'Cuz_; you _like_ her. And if she likes him they'd of worked it out for themselves eventually without you." Tino looks at him for emphasis, "Now_ you_ gotta live with knowing you did it." Brian swallows. "_Yeah_. You gotta know he had other people to turn to right? _ And, he could always say 'I'm sorry' on his own."

"Are you—" Brian's thrown. "Are you saying he used me?"

"'Used'? I don't know I'd say that. He's just getting _he_ actually likes her, doubt you're factoring in any. But he played you," he says casually. "And her." Tino shrugs. "He plays everyone a little. And they let 'im do it 'cuz of those big dumb blue eyes of his, and 'cuz he us'ly doesn't start trouble." He drinks his beer. "Don't kid yourself though — you don't hate him. He's likeable. He just is."

"So. What'd you mean then?"

It's so clear and simple to Tino: "If it comes from you, J doesn't have to be responsible. If it's not his words, it's not that real. He doesn't have to feel 'em if he didn't have to think 'em up."

Brian's at a loss. "Well, he gave it to her," he points out. "The letter. He let her_ think_ they were his words. That he felt that way."

"Looka you," Tino smiles. "Coming to your rival's defense. Classy. And _yeah_," he points at Brian, "that's exactly why it's going to work; _that_ and that puppy-dog sex thing he's got going for him." Brian blinks. "But c'mon, the kid's not special. He can _say_ 'sorry.' Everybody needs to not cut him so much slack. Her especially. I mean, she's_ not_, and that's why she's good for him; because she sees him as more than a selfish jackass who gets a pass to act badly just 'cuz he smiles at you and says," and Tino nails a perfect Jordan Catalano, "'_Whut_'?" Brians smiles and Tino continues making his point. "Everything she sees in him is never going to be there — he's not what she's willing him to be." He drinks. "You gotta take Catalano as you find him. But," he drinks again, "time to time you gotta call him out on his crap. It's good for him. And nobody else's doin' it." Brian's not sure he's getting all of Tino's meaning. "Guess I'm just sayin', losing the girl's one thing, handing 'er off's a whole other level of hell, Virgil." Brian swallows. _Can this be real? How does this total stranger know how he feels about Angela; and was he really citing Dante?_

"You think I—?" Brian starts after a minute.

"Had a real chance with her if Jordan Catalano were out of the picture? No. Not for another two years at least. Sorry. But, take comfort."

"Yeah?" Brian scoffs "In what?"

"Three things." Tino counts down on his fingers: "He really does like her. You like him, so you're not as mad as you'd like to be."

"And?"

"Huh?" Tino plays innocent.

"'Three'?"

"Oh. 'Three'. Angela Chase's not the only girl you've got in common. And _she's_ interested." Brian neither has time to process nor react; from just inside the house he hears a voice he recognizes.

"Hey, T." Tino doesn't turn but waits instead for Jordan to emerge and join them.

"I'm going home," Brian gets out quickly before that front door opens.

Tino nods. He gets it.

As Brian descends the porch steps and walkway, retrieves his bike and sets it upright, Tino calls out, "Think 'three' Krakow. Gotta believe it to achieve it." He drinks. Brian mounts his bike and begins pedaling. Tino calls after him, "And no one catches a fish trying the same damn spot in the sea time after time. Troll a little God damn you." And suddenly Tino's beer bottle is smashing into millions of shards of green glass on the street just where Brian had been a moment earlier.

* * *

At the end of the night, after Dustin's dropped her off and headed back to his friends' place, Angela, barefoot and holding her shoes, sneaks into her room and silently closes the door.

Danielle stirs and turns towards her sister, "Why are you walking like that?"

Startled, Angela jumps. "I thought you would be asleep."

"I'm too bored to sleep." Angela steps into the closet to change her clothes, the dim yellow light streaming across the bedroom floor to the foot of Danielle's twin bed. Danielle sits up a little and whispers a little louder so her sister can hear her. "Mom's driving me crazy."

From the closet Angela remarks, "That's what she does."

"It's not fair; she's completely controlling me. And she acts so weird when she's around her family."  
Angela emerges in her pajamas, pulls the closet light cord and sits atop the other twin bed. "I know; it's like she has this _Better Patty_ she puts on for them."

"But she tries to do it to me too," Danielle complains. "I keep telling her that I don't want to hang out with Laura, but she makes me play with her anyway. It's like she's in denial."

"I know," Angela empathizes. After a moment of silent consideration she thoughtfully posits, "But maybe it's just easier. You know? If things don't change…"

"Easier for _who_?" Danielle's grumpiness has not dissipated.

"…Good question…" And Angela slips out of the conversation with her sister and into the thoughts that have filled her head for more than a week. Months actually.

Unaware Angela's attention has waned, Danielle continues to gripe; "I mean, am I supposed to keep pretending I like her, even if I don't, just to make it easier on Mom?"

Mildly resentful to be jogged back to Danielle's problem, Angela sighs, runs her fingers through her hair, and scooches to the top of the bed and pulls back her covers. "I don't know Danielle." Hearing herself, and shutting her eyes to block the dizziness, Angela makes an effort to be nicer, "Maybe it doesn't make things any easier to pretend your feelings about someone haven't changed; maybe it's better for everyone just to say it – how you feel…"

Propped on her elbow Danielle peers at Angela through the darkness. "You mean about Jordan?"

"Danielle."

"What? I heard Mom telling Dad that he came over the other night. And that she let you go out, on a school night..." The little sister is fishing for details.

"Danielle, you shouldn't listen in on their conversations."

"So," Danielle ventures to press, "what happened between you and Jordan? _ What happened between you and Rayanne?" She receives no reply. "Angela."

Groggy, Angela sinks into the bed and sighs, "I'm not going to talk about it."

"I know you and Rayanne had a fight."

Angela lies, staring up at the stucco ceiling, concentrating on her breath rolling in and out of her her body. She can feel it in her fingers. She swallows and swears she can feel the reverberations thundering through her head. She shuts her eyes tightly to center herself and take control of the spinning. Angela concentrates on the weight of her head on her pillow. "It wasn't a fight."

"And I know it was about Jordan. He stopped coming by, stopped driving you to school, stopped calling all the same week Rayanne did."

Angela sounds exhausted, "He never called."

"He did sometimes. _Angela_, you were taking _the bus_." She's said it like it's some greater proof of something.

"His car was in the shop," Angela covers. "And I never stopped taking the bus."

Danielle settles back into her pillows. "You're lying. It was because of Rayanne. The weekend she spent locked to Mom and Dad's bed_—"_

"_Shhh_!"

"You were so angry with her. What else would make you so angry?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know," she admits. "But I'm still right." Outside the window a cricket is chirping. A car passes by. The room is silent, and small. Danielle asks another question: "Why are you seeing him again?"

Angela lifts her head, "Who says I am?"

"Angela, I live in the world."

Angela drops back to her pillow and turns her head towards the window. "Don't talk like her."

Danielle silently leaves her bed to lean with interest against Angela's, "So, do you love him?"

"Jordan?" It took Angela a little longer to answer than it might have, even with the drinking.

Danielle moves in a little closer, "Uh-huh."

"… I don't… I don't know. I guess sometimes I think so, but_—_"

Danielle hasn't heard the 'but', and her response is dreamy and distant, "_Wow_." At age eleven she's sufficiently impressed by the abstract thought of this, and Angela decides not to complete her caveat. Danielle cuddles up to her sister. "I've never even been kissed."

She lightly brushes a wisp of Danielle's hair out of her face, "It'll happen."

"Angela?" Danielle yawns.

"Mm?" Angela's just barely awake at this point.

"I'm glad you're my sister." She snugs in and pulls the quilt and sheets over her shoulder and closes her eyes.

"Me too…" It was said so softly one needed to be as close as Danielle to hear it.

"Will you tell me the real story one day?"

Angela licks her lips and tucks her hands beneath her pillow. "Probably not."

"You will. It takes you about five years, but you eventually tell me the truth."

Angela rolls over, "Shhh."

* * *

The following morning, Graham stands in the girls' doorway looking at them sleep; they are still in bed together. Graham smiles, he hasn't seen them this close in what seems like forever. Softly he closes the door, happy that his girls can still find ways to be sisters to one another, and with no prompting or cajoling from him or Patty. In the hallway he meets Don, whose pictures and stories he's been avoiding all weekend, and who he couldn't help but argue with last night. "Hey Don," Graham smiles.

"Good morning, Graham. Girls still asleep?"

"Yeah." Graham walks with Don downstairs. "Listen, uh, I just wanted to say, uh, Patty and the girls, well, we've all had a great weekend."

"Glad to hear it, Graham," he pats his shoulder. "I think Tammy is about to make breakfast."

"Look, why don't I make breakfast; and you can tell me more about your trip."

* * *

Stepping out of the shower, Angela wraps her hair in a towel and pulls another round her torso; she stands before the bathroom mirror, wipes the steam away with her hand and studies her reflection intently. '_I woke up that morning with a clear mind. I don't know what it was exactly, but it seemed like everything that had been weighing on me __— _Brian, the letter, Rayanne… Suddenly nothing seemed as bad as it had. Or as binary. Maybe it never was. Or maybe I finally let it all go. I don't know… It just felt like I could go back, like I could move on. Or, ahead. I had been belaboring over answers to question that had not been asked. And the only question that had been asked, deep down, I already knew the answer to. And it hadn't changed; in spite of everything, since back in September _—_ the end of last spring really _—_ the answer had not changed. The answer had been there before the question was asked, and in a vacuum alone or amidst other, complicated, half-revealed truths, it was still 'yes'.'

* * *

In the kitchen Graham is at the stove poaching eggs and drizzling oven toasted bread with olive oil and basil. Don and his wife and the other adults are in the kitchen talking to Graham as he slices tomatoes into paper-thin slivers.

"—And of course," Don continues, "you know our neighbors Paul and Nola, their son just got married last week."

"Oh really?" Graham gives his best imitation of upbeat interest.

"Beautiful ceremony," Jan contributes.

"Of course Nola's mother couldn't be there, you know how sick she's been," Tammy adds.

"Hm," says graham over his cup of coffee.

Patty enters smiling; she's overheard Graham finally playing nice. "Good Morning. Oh, that smells delicious."

"I was just thinking that," nods Walter decidedly.

"Of course you know Graham's opening his restaurant soon," Patty shares, deftly steering the conversation as only her mother's daughter so skillfully can.

"That's right!" says Don. "We have a professional cooking us breakfast."

"Graham," it's Tammy this time, "Patty's been telling us all about it; it all sounds so exciting."

"You know," Graham smiles, "it is, kind of exciting." After this weekend, and whatever that'd been _—_ back at the location that night he'd cooked for the investors, and everything he'd been trying not to feel since then, it was nice just to get some credit for the work he's doing and to enjoy it. Because this was huge. And he'd never seen anything like this for himself. And regardless of everything else that may have been or might still be, it's nice to get some recognition for this. This thing he wants so badly to do well.

"When will the restaurant open?" Libby asks. "We will all come down for it of course."

"Oh we'd love that!" Patty crosses the room to stand by Graham, laying a hand on his shoulder. Graham leans to give her a peck on the side of her head and gives her a quick wink. Patty smiles, gives him a small pat, and then beaming, continues her conversation with the relatives. "Yes, I'm so proud. _ Well, it's all happened so fast!"

* * *

Angela carries her overnight bag to the front door and there meets Tammy who is coming in from outside. "Honey; so, you're off?'

Angela smiles warmly, her most genuine self she's been all weekend, "I guess so."

"Well, I hope we'll be seeing you again soon; you and your sister are growing up so fast I can hardly stand it."

"I know," she smiles again. "I'm sorry. I hope we'll see you soon. Thank you for having us."

"You're a darling girl, Angela. Always have been." Tammy gives her a hug and a kiss, "Tell that father of your he did good."

Angela nods, "I will."

* * *

At the end of the weekend the Chases are once again packed into the station wagon and driving back to Three Rivers. Graham is at the wheel, Angela in the backseat behind him, with Patty and Danielle beside them. Angela has her earphones on and sits with her forehead leaned against the cool hard window, once more watching the street signs and telephone poles fall away one by one.

"Whew!" Patty exclaims. "It will be nice to be home."

Angela good-naturedly rolls her eyes, "Mm, hm." '_My mother always says that at the end of a vacation.'_ She takes off her earphones. '_But…_' Angela turns from looking out the window towards Danielle and smiles, then leans forward and reaches over the driver's seat to hang on Graham's shoulders; he takes her hand and gives it a quick kiss, then he and Patty smile at each other and then back at the girls, '_I was beginning to think it would be._'

The station wagon moves down the road, eventually disappearing into the distance.

* * *

_Posted 2/5/13_


	12. Performances

_Second of the 'episode' stories. **  
**_

**#21 Performances**

* * *

**DAY 1**

Angela Chase, burgundy backpack on her back, textbooks in her arms, walks down a Liberty High hallway on a Monday morning. '_So, Jordan Catalano had driven me home from school everyday last week. After being gone all that weekend I had woken Monday morning half afraid it'd all disappeared while I was away — that a night was all it took for what we'd tentatively worked out to fall apart and evaporate. But that morning outside my door, ready to intercept my short walk to the bus stop, there he was. And things, just, slipped into place. Me in his car. Him at my locker. Long drives home_.' She wets her lips. 'Friday night he was going to take me to this _thing_,' Angela pulls her textbook closer to her chest and bites on her lower lip... 'But, we never made it.' She faintly smiles to herself as she replays the memory, but Angela remembers herself and moves past the images playing in her mind; regrouping, she tucks her hair. When she looks up she sees Rayanne turning a far corner into the hallway; when she sees Angela Rayanne kind of pauses, waiting for any sign of recognition, but Angela only looks away. She is still avoiding all contact.

Angela averts her eyes, pretends to look through her textbook, and waits it out. '_It had been close to two weeks since the letter; things with Jordan were getting close to normal, but I still hadn't spoken to Rayanne Graff. Not really_.' Rayanne's reaction is immediate and self-preserving. Quickly she turns and leaves in the direction from which she had come. Angela covertly watches her as she does this; her eyes roll, she sighs, and walks away in the other direction. '_Things hadn't gotten worse, but I couldn't see them getting any better. It's like we're stuck; 'cuz, you can't just unknow someone. Or something._

'_I can't unknow what I'm pretty sure I know about my father. Just like I'll never un-know what happened between Rayanne and Jordan. But on the same note I can't, however much I'd like to, unknow her entirely. She will never be a stranger to me. She will always be my former-best-friend. I will always know the things I knew about her. And even if I _could_ somehow forget her, just leave it all in the past_,' she runs into a school poster for _Our Town_, and blinks, '_the universe won't seem to let me._' Angela stands there, reading the copy, '_I know this play mattered to her_.' She allows herself to study the poster a second more before she self-edits and looks away, moving on towards her next class. '_But _I_ mattered to her too_,' she rubs her forehead as if exhausted, '_I guess what I didn't know was how little what matters to her _actually_ matters to her_.'

Angela exhales and takes a seat in her still mostly-empty history class. Looking around Angela remains detached as she _—_ somewhat world-wearily ___—_ flips her hair at the roots. '_Jordan'd said he didn't want to pretend, and we weren't. We weren't really talking about it at all. But _not_ pretending it hadn't happened with _him_ — if that's even what he'd meant — means I can't _pretend_ it with _her_. Which makes any reconciliation that much harder to consider._' She rubs her eyes. '_But, the truth of it is, as much as I'd like to not pretend at all, and just be real with everyone about everything, behind that is still very real pain, and honestly, playing these roles we've somehow been cast in — acting like everything's fine; acting like it will never, could never, be forgiven — is keeping that pain at bay — behind the scenes, where eventually, I guess I'm hoping it will fade away_.'

* * *

Traversing the Liberty High hallway before class Rayanne spots Sharon exchanging books at her locker. Initially Rayanne looks away, then gathers herself and her shoulder bag, and takes an exaggerated step in Sharon's direction. It's not a risk exactly. Sharon's been fairly clear where she stands on this: Rayanne messed up; she has Angela's back unquestionably; she's not fighting someone else's fight. But with every new conversation it does _feel_ like there is a risk. Like enough time has passed that Sharon now sees she can't do both — she can't be Angela's best childhood friend _and_ be friends with her.

Rayanne at first walks past Sharon before circling back to settle in, leaning against the adjacent lockers.

Still transferring things from her locker to her backpack, Sharon glances at Rayanne, "Hey."

Rather than looking at her Rayanne looks around her, avoiding initial eye contact as if she is still hesitant she wants to commit to such a public venue for a friendly conversation with Sharon Cherski. Though it's more complex than just that. Much more. "Hey."

Sharon is not interested in starting from square one every time she speaks with Rayanne and thus she ignores Rayanne's stand-offishness and makes conversation as she finishes locating her books, "How're rehearsals going?"

"Oh," Rayanne digs through her bag as a deflector, "you know, whatever." She pulls out, of all things, a leftover candy cane from December, broken in a few places but none the worse for wear. Rayanne offers it to Sharon who turns it down with a face, and so Rayanne unwraps it for herself, sticking a chunk of it way back in her mouth. "I don't know what it is, about December," she observes, "but the twelfth month rolls around and everyone's suddenly fall-all-over-themselves in love with peppermint. I got a million of these. They're everywhere." She lodges the candy in the hinge of her jaw, letting it jut from her mouth like some odd cigar stub. "Luckily, I like them." Rayanne uses her tongue to click the obstruction against her molar teeth and enjoys the sensation of her inner cheek drying out from the sugar. She turns, leaning right into Sharon's locker. "So," she begins lightly, "Angela's still not talking to me."

Sharon looks at her, and closes her locker. "I think," her voice is level and impressively impartial, "you have to consider the possibility that she never will." Sharon starts down the hallway and Rayanne, not ready to process or accept this, moves to catch up to her, completely changing the tone of the conversation as she does so.

"Okay Cherski, spill, what's been happening with you and Vinodick?" Sharon shoots Rayanne one of her amused and dubious looks. And so temporarily clear of land mines, the girls continue their now light-hearted conversation; as they round the corner the late bell rings.

* * *

Happily ensconced in Jordan's car Angela's ditched her after-lunch class and remains with Jordan in the student lot during her study hall period. Between kisses he asks, "What are you doing this weekend?"

"I'm, uh," she tucks her hair and backs away a little to answer. She's loving that he's already looking ahead — last Friday night must still be in his head too. "Uh," she glance into the rearview mirror, "I was kinda thinking of going to go see _Our Town_."

"Oh." He nods blankly. But she doesn't need to see his expression; Angela was already learning to discern Jordan's monosyllabic responses. There's the 'Huh' that says, 'I like that, that's pretty cool.' There's the 'Oh' that says, '_Really?_ I hate that, but — fine. Whatever.' This 'Oh' said, 'That meant nothing to me.' And it hadn't. _'Our town'? Is she talking 'bout Three Rivers?_

"It's, this play," she explains, and sensitive about always positioning herself as the-explainer-of-things to Jordan, Angela mitigates her self-consciousness with another hair tuck. "At school."

"Oh. Right." Jordan scratches his jaw. "Think Tino might'a said he'll be goin'." Already having lost interest he changes the subject, "So listen—"

Angela though, unaware he was shutting down the conversation so quickly, starts in at the same time, continuing on about Tino and the play: "Yeah. Well, Rayanne's like, the lead, or whatever—"

Jordan flicks a speck of dust from the dashboard. "Rayanne Graff?" He's said her name oddly — and seemingly unnecessarily — and in a way that seems he doesn't want to have said it at all.

Angela's lips purse imperceptibly. '_Even though I had forgiven him, and we'd moved past it — the whole, _thing_ — mostly anyway, it was still too weird to hear him say her name. Like, out loud. It was like, I wasn't ready to really live with the reality of them knowing each other — with them even existing in the same world._'

She looks away, "Uh-huh."

"_ Huh."

Angela glances at him. '_Guess I wasn't alone_.'

"So," he clears his throat, the atmosphere between them shifting. "Are you, talking to her?" He looks away, looking like getting into this conversation's the last thing he wants to do. He scratches his head, "Mean," he glances back at her, "are you friends?"

Once more Angela can't tell where he's coming from with this. All the times they've circled around the topic — that night, what happened, the apologies — the conversation had never really made its way to her. Especially not under Jordan's direction. Angela feels she could count the number of times she's ever heard him actually speak Rayanne's name on one hand. Two at the most. He never asked her about her friends. Now this? _Where is he coming from?_ Giving it thought Angela's distant as she answers, "I'm not sure." She purses her lips and swallows, and eyeing him, works up to her question. "Jordan? Can I ask you_—_" he looks at her "_—_something? About, all this?"

Jordan glances out the car window, watching classmates mill through the parking lot. He turns back and blinks. He fears where this is going. And wishes for some end-mark on the horizon when they might stop finding their way back here to this talk, to these unanswerable questions that, to him at least, only seem to make it harder to move forward. "Okay," he answers, though he's less than enthusiastic about the prospect of it.

Ever unsure of her footing during these talks, Angela continues tentatively in a small voice. "What did Tino say? After… You know… Rayanne and...?"

He blinks, a bit relieved — _That could've been much worse_. Jordan looks at her and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. A smile appears. "He said he was glad he wasn't you."

Angela allows herself a small smile as well, and a roll of the eyes in concession. "But," she persists, "did he, I mean — was he upset? Or like, uncomfortable? Because, he's, like, friends? With both of you?" The parallels are not absolute, but behind the anger and the hurt what Angela's been coming to is an unwelcome feeling of ambivalence towards Rayanne. It seems to her getting some idea of how Tino's dealt might be beneficial.

Jordan contemplates this, "I don't know." He gestures and shrugs it off, "I mean, we never _talked_ about it." He pauses to partly consider it now, "It's kind of hard," he reflects, "to know what Tino's, thinking."

'_To hear Jordan Catalano, say _that_, about someone else, was like, totally_—'

"Ironic. Huh?"

She swallows. "Excuse me?"

"You and Tino. Like, in the same situation. I mean," he tilts his head, "not the _same_, but…"

"Yeah," she nods. Nearing discomfort Angela redirects the conversation. "And, uh, you guys are cool?"

"Who? Me an' Tino?" She nods. "We're cool."

"And Tino and Rayanne?"

"Yeah, they're okay."

Angela fidgets with the door handle, avoiding meeting his eyes, "But so, you two don't ever— You're not like—" He looks at her. "Are you talking? I mean Rayanne."

He could just say the truth, which would be 'No', but uncertain as he is of her intentions — wary that she's trying to monitor or control him, fearing that she's leaning towards suspicion, he only looks at her blankly. "How come?"

"No reason." She looks away again. Angela wants the answer, but she doesn't want to be asking the question. Out of everyone involved she had the least to do with getting them into this situation, and it's unfair she's now somehow the one to come across as paranoid and controlling.

Angela wants Jordan. She's come to terms with that — that despite everything, and everything that happened before Rayanne, she still wants him. So she's letting herself pursue this. And though she'd believed his eventual apology as sincere, and doubted he'd go to the trouble and awkwardness of it if it wasn't heartfelt, she's been caught offguards before and does not want to find herself in the dark again. If they _are_ talking, which she doesn't think they are, she wants to know.

He inspects her for a little longer, assessing her motivations, seeing her vulnerability. _Was answering this setting precedent?_ He exhales and relaxes a little; _She's not like that_. And if they're gonna do this, he guesses he's gotta give her something. "Not really." Of course the actual answer is 'Not at all.' He looks at her again, Jordan sighs; he doesn't want her feeling this way. "Angela, it wasn't— We didn't—"

She shakes her head, and keeps her face from wrinkling too much. "We don't have to talk about it anymore." '_The fact that I said that, after weeks of dying for an explanation, I couldn't believe it_.' She is looking out the window, messing with the dashboard as he watches her. '_I think I'm just tired, of hating them. And_—' Angela cuts off her internal monologue and turns back to him with new vivacity, "I mean, is it fair? That one night should like,_ control_ our whole lives?"

He hadn't seen this coming. She kisses him, and he, kind of not believing that Angela Chase, for once in her life, let a subject drop, like, on purpose, takes hold her cheek and begins to make out with her.

'_I couldn't believe it,_' and she runs her fingers through the soft spot in his hair at the back as he pulls her in closer.

* * *

That night, sprawled across her bed on her stomach as she works on homework, Angela's head lifts when she hears Patty call up the stairs to her. "Angela? Brian Krakow is here to see you!"

Angela pauses a minute before she rises and, picking up a book, moves out of her bedroom, up the hallway, and down the stairs. '_I had asked Brian Krakow to come over. I didn't know what to say to him, but he had barely spoken to me over the past weeks, and as unbelievably aggravating as Brian Krakow is, there is something about him you miss when he's not around. … And also_—'

She stops at the base of the stairs. There stands Brian in the middle of her living room, waiting for her, but hardly looking at her. After what had been said between them — or almost said — and then not said, speaking now seems a little moot. '_How does one go back? Or move forward? Does a person simply act as though it hadn't happened? What's the kindest thing?_' She smiles awkwardly, "Hi."

"Hey. Hi."

Curious, Patty looks silently from Brian to Angela and then back to Brian, then quietly makes her exit.

Once left alone Angela speaks. "So," she eventually steps off the stairs and moves further towards him, "here's your _Catcher in the Rye_. Thanks, uh," she holds it out to him, "for letting me borrow it."

He looks at her. His expression at first is stark stoicism, but it soon shifts to restrained indignant incredulity, "So, is that it? You just wanted to return my book?"

"Brian, no." _Why is he giving her such a hard time? How many times had he come to her under the guise of a book or the like? _She looks away; she doesn't know what to say. '_Why does everything have to be so painfully awkward? What is there to say that will make anything better?_' They're not holding eye contact, but she gathers herself and looks at him now, "So," her smile is faint but she's trying, "how are you?"

"Angela —" he starts and his voice sounds tired; he doesn't let himself finish.

"Brian." She looks at him. "I'm sorry."

"What? For what?"

She wasn't expecting this. '_Does he not know or is this self-preservation?_' Angela shakes her head, "I don't know." Lost for words she changes the subject. "So, I think I might try being friends with Rayanne again."

"Wow," is his dry response. "Congratulations. Great idea Angela." Angela's confused — she isn't accustomed to caustic irony from him, and though he does not seem to want an apology from her he does seem pretty resentful of a reconciliation between her and Rayanne. To Angela Brian Krakow's not concerned about the things she had assumed he would be. She watches as his eyes narrow, "Why are you telling me this?"

She's near stunned at this point. "No reason." '_I had no idea what to say to Brian, I didn't even know what I wanted to say. It just felt like if I couldn't carry this conversation with him now, things might never go back to normal. And I guess that's what I was trying to do, with everyone — get things back to, my so-called life. Even if that meant I could no longer pretend that nothing had happened_.'

"Listen Brian, about th—" but he cuts her off.

"I have to go." It's way too late for any of this. Or too soon. He doesn't want to stand there in the Chase's living room through this, whatever _this_ is. He knows it'll end no differently than it had that night in the street light between their houses. No differently than it had all the nights this year out there between their houses, or all these years.

When he's honest with himself he hadn't been expecting anything to change that night when he'd told her; it'd just happened. It'd just spilled out and he stood there, watching it happen — _in_ the moment but not. To open it up again would only be more of the same, and he is smarter than that. She's made her choice, he gets it. There never was a choice, he gets that too. Brian Krakow does not choose for himself perpetual rejection and so he chooses, at least for now, not to engage — to move on. Brian walks toward the door. Turning as he opens it he sees Angela's face wrinkle. She bites her lip and he exhales, "So," he concedes a little ground, "I'll, see you on the bus sometime?"

'_It was a small gesture. But so appreciated_.' She smiles faintly and nods. "Uh-huh."

"Goodnight Chase." Brian takes his book and leaves the house, shutting the door behind him.

"'Night Brian." Angela doesn't move. She stands there, struck again by the absolute disparity between life's reality and her expectations. Nothing is as she would have imagined. She has Jordan, but that hardly came about how she would have planned. In less than a year Rayanne Graff has entered her life, changed everything, been a kindred spirit, only now to be relegated as the antagonist. And now even _not_ being with Brian Krakow is not what it should have been. Somewhere in her there's a sense of confliction that bears no logical reason for being.

Her head turns when Graham enters from the kitchen. Looking around the living room he asks, "Brian gone?"

Angela nods. "Did I hear you and Rayanne made up?"

"Um," Angela evades, turning finally away from the door, "not exactly."

"Oh." He raises his brows as he observes her, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Uh, not really." She begins to remount the stairs but turns around a few steps up.

"Um, Dad, do you think it's wrong for me to be, uh, friends? With Jordan, but not with Rayanne?"

"Well, I don't know," he equivocates. "_Are_ you and Jordan just friends?"

Angela's head cocks, "Dad."

"Sorry, sorry," he smiles. Kidding aside he tries to give her some perspective; "Well, it seems to me like Rayanne was always a pretty good friend to you, until…" Angela looks away and Graham mends his tack and begins again; "And I know this kid Jordan means a lot to you." Angela faintly blushes. "But you never had quite the same history with him, as you did," he meets and holds her eyes, "say, with your best friend. So," he scratches his head, "maybe it's easier for you to forgive Jordan, because it really wasn't him who betrayed you."

'_It was truly amazing. In those few minutes, my father had, completely summed up the entire nightmare of my life starting since that night_.'

He sees her contemplating this and continues. "I guess it comes down to whether you lose more by never being friends with Rayanne again, or by forgiving her and moving on." He leaves it there, like dads do, for her to figure it out.

A little dazed, she nods her head, "Thanks..."

"You bet." Graham smiles and watches her turn and climb the stairs.

* * *

**DAY 2 (_It's now Wednesday, the story skips over a calendar day_)**

Moving down the east hallway talking, Angela and Rickie eventually end up at Rickie's locker. As he searches for his algebra homework, Angela shifts her weight and adjusts her backpack straps. "Has there been any news on your living situation?"

Rickie, as there's a part of him that feels like if he talks about it he's tempting fate, is uncomfortable with the topic. The truth is he's happy where he is. And the group home is kind of a scary prospect to him and he'd rather just not talk about it. His response is relatively closed off, especially for him, "What do you mean?"

Looking at him Angela wonders if she's crossed a line, but she has no option but to continue. "Didn't you say that Ms. Krysenowski had mentioned a place? Pride House?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head. "I was just wondering if you had heard anything more about it. Is that still happening?"

"I don't know. Maybe not," he reflects a bit wistfully. "Why?"

"Well," Angela tucks her hair, "you're not going to spend the rest of high school living with," she lowers her voice, "living with Mr. Katimsky are you?"

Rickie is reluctant to say this out loud, but he puts up a front, "Angela, of course not."

Now feeling a little funny having brought this up, Angela senses she's unwittingly made Rickie upset; she looks at him, "You don't want to, do you?"

He sighs and avoids looking at her, "I don't want to—" Rickie swallows. "I don't really feel like talking about this." But afraid he's come off as harsh, Rickie qualifies this, "Right now. Angela."

They stand there awkwardly. At this point Rickie doesn't really want to look at Angela, and she's left feeling unsteady and embarrassed.

From across the hall Corey approaches. He smiles, "Hi."

In the presence of Corey and his fanatically painted shoes Rickie compels himself to be upbeat, "Hi."

Following suit, Angela looks away without being too obvious, "Hi." They all three stand there, smiling, awkwardly for a while. Angela clears her throat. With everything with Jordan, Brian, and Rayanne, the residual awkwardness between herself and Corey Helfrick hadn't even crossed her mind. After that cringe-inducing encounter, one she can hardly abide to let her mind settle on without wishing herself dead or buried beneath a toppled mountain, it hadn't really occurred to her that he would still be a presence in her life. But, with Rickie and all, she now guesses she won't be that lucky. '_Life, it seems, is the act of learning to navigate around the humiliating moments without imploding_.'

"Well," Corey says, looking from Rickie to her, "bye."

"Yeah," Rickie smiles, "bye."

"See ya at tech."

Angela tucks her hair, looking to the floor briefly, "Bye." While he walks away Angela turns a bit and looks down the hallway in the opposite before slowly redirecting her focus back to Rickie. She bites her lips, and slowly and tentatively starts up the conversation again, "So, the play opens this weekend, huh?"

"Mm, hm."

Still easing back into the swing of a normal conversation after the awkwardness of Corey entering the scene, Angela purses her lips, "'Cuz," she scratches her eye, playing it down, "I thought I might go." Rickie looks at her, he registers no response, but rather he just listens. "You know," she qualifies so as not to leave herself too exposed, "since Mr. Katimsky's offering extra credit and all."

"Sure," Rickie nods, allowing her this bit of delusion. He shuts his locker and they start walking.

Taking her time, wary of being too obvious, Angela fishes, "So, does Rayanne ever—" But, as though she's caught herself, Angela stops short and awkwardly laughs this line of questioning off. "Never mind," she covers up, "forget it. I'll see ya." Angela walks away and Rickie watches after her for the few remaining steps before she turns the corner. Left behind he stops there and purposelessly opens the textbook he's carrying. As he flips through the book and inserted notes, Delia, all smiles and energy as always, fins him. "Hi."

Rickie double glances at her as he smiles vaguely and shuts his world history text. "Oh, hi." Their conversation continues.

Down the hallway at the opposite end, Rayanne is visible talking to some guy. Glancing at the interaction while keeping up a friendly discourse with Delia, Rickie sees he only knows the guy by sight, and he's never seen Rayanne speak with him before, though from the look of things they're getting to know each other pretty well. But when Rayanne happens to look up and spot Rickie watching, and Delia Fisher chatting him up and laughing, she abruptly detaches herself from the unnamed distraction and walks away, crossing the hallway to approach the twosome.

"Excuse me," Rayanne says dryly as she seamlessly disrupts their conversation by moving in between them, leaning against the wall of lockers, thereby forcing Delia back a few steps. Rayanne's decided she resents this new thing with Rickie and Delia Fisher and she's resolved to be a bit of a bitch about it.

Delia gets the hint and excuses herself, tactfully brushing away the awkwardness, "Okay, I guess I'll see you later."

"'_Kay_ by-e," Rayanne emits in mock enthusiasm.

Delia closes her lips in a polite smile. "Bye Rickie."

"Bye Delia." His intonation carries in it a slight apology. Which only further irritates Rayanne.

Rayanne watches as Delia walks away. "That girl is on some serious Prozac."

"Rayanne."

"What?" She's so good at feigning innocence. Rayanne tugs Rickie along as she starts moving up the stairwell. "Do you ever _not_ see her smiling? It's spooky."

"She's nice."

"That's just it," Rayanne looks at him pointedly, "it's the nice ones you have to watch out for. I'll bet she killed someone at her last school."

"Rayanne."

"It'd at least make her more interesting." Rickie gives her a look. "I'm just saying. I mean, she hangs with Cherski;" Rayanne shrugs her general conclusion, "you've gotta be nuts."

"Rayanne," Rickie points out, "_you_ hang out with Sharon."

Rayanne skips over this. "I bet her hair's fake."

"It's not fake," he shakes his head with an amused smile.

"I don't know…" Rayanne prances, "I heard it's a wig."

"Rayanne, shut up," Rickie says with tolerance. But Rayanne is on a kick and is enjoying that she's actually once again having a semi-normal moment with her oldest friend.

"I mean, I don't know what Krakow saw in her," Rayanne grumbles, "she's too boring, even for _him_."

Rickie's eyes narrow as he takes in what Rayanne _isn't_ saying. He smiles dryly, "I'll see you later."

"Can't you take a joke? Where's your sense of humor Vasquez?" But Rickie, who for weeks now has been trying to walk the tenuous line between supporting Angela and not abandoning Rayanne, is not hanging around for these games. He heads off. Rayanne stays for a moment then rushes to catch up with him. "Wait, Rickie, I gotta tell you about the cast party! It's going to be wicked. Tino has this connection with—"

Rickie stops her and looks at her, "Rayanne, do you really think that's such a good idea?"

She stops and asks flatly, "What do you mean?"

"I just mean... Look at the things that have happened when you drink." Rayanne resents very much having the past shoved in her face like this. Rickie regrets doing it but he pushes on, though with a little less assurance. "You've been doing so well, with the play and everything, why mess it up?"

"Mess _what_ up?" she responds defensively. "I'm not messing anything up." Rickie makes no reply. In answer Rayanne pulls a flask out from somewhere and roguishly unscrews the cap with her right forefinger, daring Rickie to protest as he watches. Rickie, who's only partly surprised to see she's taken to carrying flasks to school again, only sighs.

"Never mind," he says defeated. Adding before he walks away, "Just— be careful."

"I don't need to be careful," she calls after him. "What I _need_ are some better friends." She doesn't mean it. If she could say it, she would have said what she needs is to go back to the friendships they all once had, way back in October. But of course that cannot be done. And besides she cannot say it. Nor can she even allow herself to think it. What Rayanne does do is move to take a drink from her flask, but—

"_Rayanne!_" From out of nowhere Sharon's moving towards her. Covertly Rayanne tucks away the flask before Sharon ever sees it and before she ever takes a drink. Beside her now Sharon is all energy and Rayanne, surreptitiously tightening the screw-on cap with her forefinger, fixes her face to match. "You will NOT believe what I did last night!"

Sharon's energy draws Rayanne into the conversation, "Oh yeah? Kyle?"

* * *

"Hey Shorty. What'ya doing?"

Patty looks up from the couch, surrounded by order forms and client files. She looks at him wryly with a pencil in her mouth, "I hate it when you call me that."

Graham leafs through some of the papers, "Wow. The high-speed copiers. You're doing it."

Patty smiles, "Looks like it. Oh Graham, it's going to make such a difference—" She's getting excited, and kind of gets up on her knees to start explaining it, but it is interrupted when the phone rings.

"Dad!" Danielle calls from upstairs. "It's that Hallie person on the phone."

Graham eyes his wife and laughs briefly as if to say, 'What're you going to do?', then calls up to Danielle, "Okay—" He rises and moves into the den, picking up the phone. With nothing else to do Patty settles down again and returns to her papers, but she looks up from them and watches Graham covertly as his conversation continues. She cannot hear what he's saying but he's growing more animated as the minutes pass. She can tell they're joking and at one point he bursts into that great laugh of his. When he hangs up Patty looks down at her papers once more — _No, she hadn't been watching, she hadn't been listening_. Graham renters the living room, very excited to share what he's just heard, "Patty!" She looks up and smiles sedately. "It's all happening! The bank, the money, the space! They're starting renovations early next week! — We're deciding on the logo and the graphics — and decor — I'm going shopping for a stove — and with Hallie's connections, she's in the position to get us great advertising!"

"Well. Honey, that's wonderful." She means it, she just says it kind of quietly.

Graham is clearly swept up in the rush of it all and takes no note of her muted congratulations, "God! This 's so amazing. It's like everything is changing, it's a whole new life. I mean, this is something I've dreamed about — haven't even dared to dream about — for years!" Now a little less immediate Graham becomes more reflective, "I just can't believe it's actually happening, to _me_. Can you imagine?" Patty smiles through closed lips.

"I'm glad sweetheart."

"I'm sorry Patty, what were we talking about, before?" Patty opens her mouth_—_

"Dad!" Angela calls from the kitchen. "Where's that chowder you made?"

Patty shuts her mouth then answers for him. "It's in the fridge!" Patty turns back to Graham, opening her mouth once more to re-begin their conversation when Angela shouts again, "I can't find it!"

"The top shelf."

"Huh?"

Graham smiles weakly at Patty, sighs, and rises, "I'm coming." He walks through the dining room and pushes through the swinging door into the kitchen.

"Ah_—_ wait a minute_—_" Patty starts. She turns her head back to the kitchen door, "Angela! What happened to eating dinner as a family?" The kitchen door's swung closed already and Patty is left there, sitting by herself.

* * *

After wrangling her family Patty's managed to get them all seated round the dining table. Now the Chases are mid meal. Patty turns to Angela, "Angela, doesn't your school's play begin this weekend?" Graham looks up, not really liking where this conversation may be leading to.

Angela tucks her hair, "Uh, yeah." She stabs a carrot with her fork. "I think so."

"You 'think so'? Angela, weren't you supposed to be selling tickets?"

"_Okay_: Yes, it opens Thursday night."

"Tomorrow?" Angela nods. "Well," Patty smiles her Patty Chase smile and looks around the table, "maybe we should all go." Graham gulps.

"_No_," Danielle protests. "Why do _I_ have to go? Can I at least bring a friend?"

Patty ignores Danielle's complaint. "You've been attending the rehearsals, right, Angela? How is it?"

"Uh, Patty," Graham coughs, "maybe we should hold off a bit? Angela didn't even say she was going."

"Of course she's going; why would she do all that work just to walk away?" It's safe to assume Patty'd meant nothing more by this than what she's said, but still something in the way she's said it make Graham's eyes flash to her.

'_I hadn't told my parents that I was too embarrassed to continue painting sets. I couldn't face Corey, and I couldn't face everyone in the cast and crew falling all over themselves over Rayanne. Plus it happened to make the perfect excuse while I was with Jordan_.' Angela hesitates before answering her mother's original question, "Uh, I don't really know; mainly we're backstage."

"Well, I'm sure it will be wonderful."

"I don't know," Graham reigns her in. "Maybe we should wait for some reviews. I mean, we're talking high school drama. How 'wonderful' could it really be?" He flashes a conspiratorial look at Angela. Patty throws her cloth napkin at Graham.

'_For obvious and some less obvious reasons, I really didn't want my family to see the play. I wasn't even sure I wanted to see the play. But I kind of felt like I had to. Not out of any obligation to Rayanne, but… I don't know; I just felt like I _had_ to see her. But I couldn't stand the thought of my family actually applauding for her._'

"Um," Angela tucks her hair again, "I already sold all of my tickets."

Patty looks at her incredulously, "You sold _all fifty_ of your tickets?"

Angela hesitates, looks around at her family members, and then kind of cracks. "Actually, I'm not sure I want you to go. See, Rayanne's in the play… And I'm not even sure if I'm going to go." She pauses, and looks from her father to her mother, "Could you guys, just like, _not_ go."

"Of course," Patty nods, "we understand."

But suddenly Danielle's perked up, "Rayanne's in it? I want to go."

Angela exhales, rises and leaves the table.

Graham attempts to smooth things over, "Ah, Danielle_—_" but he stops when he's not sure how to put it.

* * *

**DAY 3**

When the bell rings to end the period Mr. Katimsky is still speaking to his sophomore English class as they noisily pack their materials and slowly migrate to the door all the while he endeavors to keep command of their attention, "Okay, uh, if you want extra credit for seeing _Our Town_, then you need to respond, uh, in writing, to the prompt on the board. In, uh, complete _"

A student interrupts the characteristic pause in his delivery, "Don't you have it on a handout?"

"Yeah Mr. K., can't you Xerox this stuff?"

"Ah, see, it's ah, extra credit. Copy it down _ or don't."

Students grumble and whine as they exit, but Angela, Brian, and several other students do stay past the bell to copy down the prompt.

As he writes, Brian sneaks a glance in Angela's direction, he studies her but when her eyes catch his and she in turn looks at him, he quickly looks away.

Rayanne pops her head into the classroom, "Yo, Mr. K., what time tonight?"

"Ah, curtain call is, ah, 5:30, Rayanne."

"Cool." Rayanne moves to pop back out but catches a glimpse of Brian and Angela. Angela had been watching Rayanne ever since she entered the room, but now immediately she looks down. Rayanne picks up on this, and responds by noticing Brian: "Krakow, you heartbreaker, I better see you tonight." She disappears and then reappears, pointing a finger at him with determination, "You're _going_ to the cast party."

Witness to this Angela is well irritated._ Why does Rayanne_ have _to be the center of everything? What gives her the right to go around ordering people about, telling them what they will and will not do? And why does it seem like Rayanne Graff is systematically commandeering each of her friends? _Angela can think of no other reason why Rayanne would bother with Brian Krakow other than to irritate her, and to draw attention by talking to_ him_ that she was _not_ talking to her. Which just makes her angrier _—_ _What right does Rayanne have for being pissed, or for avoiding her?_ Quickly Angela shuts her notebook, and rises to gather her things; Rayanne notes her ire but despite it, or because of it, she persists with the flirtation, "You're _not_ getting out of it." The last part of her sentence she calls out as she continues down the hallway, "I want to see you there Krakow." Brian's wide eyes follow after her.

Making her way toward the exit Angela passes Brian's desk, "She doesn't mean it, you know. She doesn't mean anything she says."

Brian looks up at her, a little defiant, "Well, congratulations." He too stacks and packs his books in annoyance. "Looks like 'being friends again' 's really worked out for you."

Angela brushes him off in cold irritation, "Just, forget it." And she exits the room.

* * *

Rickie stands outside Ms. Krzyzanowski's office door. He looks around from side to side before knocking with trepidation. This is not a conversation he's wanting to have. He waits. Rickie tries the handle, but it's locked; she's not in. He sighs and then, no longer caring if he's seen, turns and leans against the door. Delia approaches.

"Hi."

Realizing someone is there Rickie straightens himself and forms a smile. "Uh, hi."

Delia, as always, smiles in return, "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Rickie covers, playing everything off.

...

Delia and Rickie have moved to the school's second floor, and are seated on the window ledge to the north fire escape. Having skipped their next period Rickie has been telling Delia about what's been going on.

"And so Ms. Krzyzanowski said she would try to get me a place in this group home, only the wait is kind of long, so I," he hesitates, "so I moved in with Mr. Katimsky."

"Mr. Katimsky. The English teacher?"

Rickie looks at her, and swallows, "Uh huh."

"Wow." She scratches her brow in disbelief. "I had no idea all that was happening."

Uncomfortable with the sympathy, Rickie tries to deflect the situation, "Well..."

"So," she asks, brow furrowed, "when we were all over there the other night...?"

"Uh huh."

"And," she starts, taking the pressure off and keeping the conversation going, "now how are things going?"

"Good," he smiles slightly. "Great really. I feel like I_—_ Like I'm_—_"

"Settled?" she offers.

"Yeah," he nods. "'Settled.' And now, I'm worried that they're going to find a place for me in the home, and I want to tell Krzyzanowski not to bother, or at least find out how long I have _—_ but what if she's forgotten? I don't want to remind her. And I don't exactly want to have to tell her where I've been staying."

"She doesn't know?"

"I don't know. Mr. Katimsky hasn't told me not to say anything, but just the same, I haven't really told anyone. It's not exactly – usual."

"Well, no..."

There is a pause in the conversation, and then Delia begins laughing at herself. This surprises Rickie and he looks over at her, "What?"

"Nothing. I just feel so painfully usual and boring next to your life." He cracks a smile.

"Trust me, it's nothing to envy. There's nothing painful about being normal. People leave you alone, you can just, be yourself."

"Well, it's always hard being yourself. Everyone struggles with that." She looks at him. "In a way, I think you're lucky; you know who you are. Most people have no idea."

"Maybe." It's a sweet thought but he doesn't really buy it – still, he's flattered and touched by her attention.

* * *

As it nears 5:30, Rayanne, still in street clothes, stands at a pay phone outside the school auditorium. She is trying to place a call and is clearly getting agitated over whoever she's calling not picking up. Twisting around in the cabled phone cord, she hops from one foot to the other and kicks at the phone stand. She hangs up. Rayanne drops in another quarter and dials a second number. At this point she is getting antsy. No one answers this call either. She slams the phone down, and turning away kicks back behind her to kick the dangling phone book. Now pacing, Rayanne kind of talks to herself and clenches her fists _—_ she's in the process of wigging out.

She begins to dig through her bag for her flask when Brian appears on the scene. Riding his bicycle in lazy circles he approaches slowly, studying her without Rayanne noticing that he is there. Failing to find her flask she cusses to herself.

"Hey."

She looks up, conscious that she has been caught in a moment of weakness, "He-y."

Brian looks at her, "How's it going?"

"Ah, you know," she cavalierly kicks the phone book one last time for good measure. "Fabulous." Brian silently nods. Rayanne's brow furrows as leans forward to squint at him skeptically. "What're you _doing_ here?"

Brian doesn't let her intimidate him. Maybe for the first time. "I came to see the show."

"_Yeah_? Well you're an hour and a half early." Brian just shrugs. Rayanne, however, plenty nervous herself at this moment, wants to see him squirm; "What's that about?"

"I wasn't doing anything. I figured Rickie might be around," she scoffs, "figured I'd tell you to break a leg. If I saw you."

"You got something against my legs?"

Brian swallows. "No."

She looks at him, hard, then a smile breaks and she shakes her head. "Krakow, why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

Rayanne knows she should tell, it'd do him goo to hear it, but she figures he's too much in his already and she lets it drop. "Nothing. Forget it." _Maybe he'll outgrow it._

Brian hasn't stopped watching her. He'd seen her freaking out as he'd ridden up. He'd been there that night at that coffee place too. But if he's honest with himself, concern's not the only thing keeping him looking. She's fascinating to him.

"_What_?"

"Nothing." He glances at the pay phone behind her. "Not home?"

Rayanne loves that didn't ask if she was 'okay' or if 'something's wrong'. _Maybe he's learning._ She loves it and so she lets her guard down. Rayanne exhales and sits on the curb. "Ah, my mom. She was supposed to be here tonight. She was supposed to be here, to see me..."

Brian, still perched on his bike, looks around the near-empty parking lot. He keeps his focus off her, as if there is a delicate balance of how much he can look at her before she tells him to get lost or goes back behind that wall she's always got up. "Well, it's still early. Like you said, the performance won't start for another hour or so."

Rayanne's incredulous, "Hmph."

"She could still show."

Rayanne's eyes roll. "The thing about my mom is, she tends to get side tracked. She'll have every intention of showing up somewhere, but then something, happens. Like, tonight, she'll probably end up going for drinks with people from work. If she's not with her low-life boyfriend." Rayanne distracts herself by returning to digging through her bag. "She's kinda like Tino in that way. Whatever," she mutters. "No biggie. It's not like tonight's the only night or anything. There's plenty of other nights she can come." Brian nods again. "And _Tino_," she scoffs. "Who knows where _he_ is. He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. But," she grumbles, "that's nothing new. Been avoiding me for weeks." Searching again through her bag she finds the flask. She holds it in her hand, hard, and cold, and solid, but something stops her and she does not produce it. "Damn it." From Brian's perspective he cannot see the flask.

"Nervous?"

"_Me?_" She stands, "Krakow, get real."

And Brian gives her this; "I didn't think so."

Dropping her head, she stands on the sides of her feet and lets her bag drop to the parking lot blacktop. To make space in the conversation Brian does a small circle on his bike and returns to where he was, looking up at her through lowered brows, "Rickie says the show will be great." He hesitates to continue but says, "You're really good." She makes a face, picks up her bag, and by mistake the flask falls out, clattering to the ground. She picks it up quickly, making momentary eye contact with Brian before she readjusts herself into a composed version of her self, and walks away. "Uh hey, Graff," he starts, knowing he'll sound stupid if he continues, "Break a leg. Or whatever. _ You'll be great."

This gives Rayanne pause; she turns, inexplicably winks at him, and, even more unpredictably, tosses the flask to him. He drops his bike in the effort to catch it, and though she doesn't see it, she clearly hears it happen and laughs. "See ya Krakow. Try an' relax." He stands there, wide eyed, looking at the flask and watching her walk away.

* * *

Seated at the Chase dining room table with a ton of paper work _—_ more color-coaded order forms, client files and invoices, Patty drinks her now lukewarm coffee. At the coffee table Danielle sits doing her homework while Graham reclines behind her on the sofa reading through a French cookbook. All three look up when there is a knock at the door.

"I'll get it!" Danielle rises and rushes to the door. The enthusiasm with which she's answered the door fades as she sees who it is, "Hey Uncle Neil." She leaves the door open for him to pass through and returns silently to her work.

Neil smirks at his younger niece and closes the door. "Hey everybody."

Graham rises from the sofa, "Hey!"

"Hi Neil," Patty says from her paperwork.

From a small paper sack Neil produces a bottle of scotch, "For my brother, the restaurant man."

"Ah, Neil, you didn't have to do that."

"Are you kidding, this is huge. I'm so impressed." He turns back to Patty still at the dining room table, "Patty, I'm like, I'm in awe of your husband."

"We all _are,_ Neil."

Graham accepts the bottle and reads the label, "Wow, this is great, Neil. Thanks." He sets it on the hallway table.

Neil crosses to the bar to grab some glasses, "You know, when Patty _—_ How's it going? Working hard? _—_ first told me about this, I thought it was a joke. I mean, you're not exactly big on following through on things."

"Hey!" Graham chuckles.

Neil glances back at Patty as he opens the bottle, "Back me up on this Patty."

"Uh, you know, tonight's, really not the best night for all this, Neil _—_ I've got all this work, Danielle's doing her homework, it's a week night…"

"Oh. Yeah," Graham equivocates. He scratches the back of his head then gestures, "I mean, it's not even opened yet. You know, it's probably kind of premature. But hey, listen Neil, thanks."

"No, no, no, we've gotta toast this."

Patty drops her pen. "Danielle, go upstairs and finish your homework."

"Why?"

Patty's at a loss. "So you can do your work and so Daddy and I can do ours. And then everyone can go to bed."

"Dad's not doing work; he gets to just hang out with Uncle Neil. And that Hallie Lowenthal." At this Patty gives Graham a pointed look and Neil's brows raise knowingly to the ceiling.

Neil steps in, "Uh_—_ we'll take this somewhere else." He pulls on his coat and pushes Graham towards the door, "See you, Patty. Later Munchkin."

Patty looks up at Graham with a critical eye but he only shrugs at her as if to say 'What can I do?' "We won't be out too late."

Neil opens the front door and hands Graham his coat, "My brother the restaurateur. You know I'm bringing all my dates to your place. I've always wanted my own reserved booth_—_"

Graham shakes his head, "No booths." Pulling on his coat he pauses and says to Patty, "You're welcome to come."

Ignoring for the moment that that would mean leaving their twelve-year-old home alone, Patty forces a rigid smile, "No, no, go ahead. I've got," she looks around at all the papers surrounding her, "too much work to do." Her tone conveys something very different than her words, but still she smiles up at him. "Enjoy yourself."

Neil's already out the door, "Graham, are you coming?"

Graham looks at Patty, then heads out the door. "Yeah, I'm coming."

* * *

Not knowing what to do with the flask, Brian enters the auditorium lobby hiding it within the sweater he's removed. There he runs into Delia who, dressed in all black with a white button-down shirt, is working as an usher. Sharon Cherski is standing there talking with her as Brian makes his way through the large room awkwardly, looking about him and conspicuously crumpling his sweater into a rumpled ball, holding it tightly in a less than natural fashion. Brian, a little giddy from his exchange outside, does not seem quite his usual self. The girls look at him critically with raised eyebrows and narrowed eyes as he passes.

"What?"

Delia answers giving him a weird look, "Nothing."

First looking down at the sweater he holds and then back to the girls, Brian Krakow gets defensive, "It's nothing. It's just a sweater." The girls exchange glances and give him a strange look.

"That's nice Krakow," Sharon says in somewhat sour condescension. Delia only half-heartedly holds a program out to him, barely extending her wrist thereby forcing Brian to make an extra effort to take it. He does and then enters the auditorium to find a seat. For a few steps the girls follow him with their eyes before breaking out in laughter and forgetting him completely.

"Tell me he wasn't always that weird," Delia asks, starting to really be embarrassed about that new girl crush she'd harbored.

Sharon makes a noise but has no actual verbal response to this. "I better get backstage." There to write an article for _The Liberty Tribune_ on the performance, Sharon shoulders her bag and makes for the back exit.

* * *

Backstage the lofted girls' dressing room is cramped with costume wracks, a long table with folding chairs pulled up to it, and bags and bags of street clothes, makeup, hair spray and hair pins. The table is pushed up against a wall and has long mirrors propped up length-wise running across it. Makeup and hair supplies cover the table/ There is a radio playing and backpacks and shoulder bags and street shoes are stashed wherever they can fit. Rayanne sits at the long table doing her makeup, understated and neutral. Her hair too is all her natural color and is pinned half-up _—_ this is a Rayanne few have ever seen. Sharon stands at a nearby table searching through her large handbag for her materials.

"Errrh... I know I put my notebook in here. Where_ is_ it?"

"Cherski, relax. Aren't _I_ the one who's supposed to be wigging?"

"But I'm writing up the play for the school newspaper. All my research on Thorton Wilder, and my interview with Katimsky were in there!" She stops mid-panic and lifts her head, "You're going to be great, so just stop that." Rayanne's eyes bulge the way they do when she's given a directive she finds amusing. Sharon resumes her search but does not find the book. Her palm flies to her forehead, "Oh God!"

"Look, I'm the one with something to be nervous about. I mean, you're just writing the article, I'm the one it'll be about." Her voice lowers and slows as this realization hits her. Rayanne sneaks a contemplative look in the mirror, starting to actually get a little nervous.

Sharon, too distracted to be really paying attention, with sublime satisfaction lifts the notebook into the air, "Found it." She looks to Rayanne for a reaction, but seeing her resting her face in her hands, paying her no attention, Sharon moves closer. "Graff." Rayanne looks up and her eyes meet Sharon's in the mirror; for the first time Sharon really sees her, "Wow."

"What? Cherski?"

"Nothing, it's just, you look _—_ _normal_. I mean _—_ you look really good."

"Yeah?" She throws down her blush brush. Rayanne exhales and changes the subject, "So you drag Kyle here?"

"Kyle? _Please_."

Rayanne picks at a clump in her mascara, "So, who _are_ you here with?" Sharon raises an eyebrow, she knows where this is going _—_ Rayanne's lack of eye contact is telltale. "I mean, is An_—_" Rayanne cuts herself off. _Why even go there? _She mutters, "I mean, yeah, she's probably not coming." Rayanne's hand drops to the table, "Did she say anything to you?"

"No."

And up goes Rayanne's front, "Yeah, I figured. Just as well." Her tone changes slightly here as she allows herself a little more honesty and relishes the self-indulgence of her own self-pity. "I mean why would she. She like, hates me forever. Right?" she asks, fishing for confirmation.

"Look, Rayanne. Don't start thinking about all of that now. You're going to do great. Aren't you excited?" Several girls in costume enter the dressing room, all laughing and excited. They consume Rayanne in their conversation and Rayanne shifts her mood and perks up.

A bodiless voice crackles through the antiquated intercom speaker: "Places!" Rayanne glances once more into a mirror and swallows. _Maybe she shouldn't have given up her flask._

* * *

Though he's not quite sure what got him there Jordan follows behind Angela as she takes a seat in the school auditorium for the opening performance of _Our Town_. They're a little late and the play has already begun. Jordan, who most of the time doesn't have the patience for movies, does not have high hopes for the evening, and really can't remember why or how he'd agreed to go in the first place. It's strange to him to see classmates up there dressed as they are in ankle length dresses and suspenders and the like. He tries to pay attention but he ends up just watching the light cues and marking the times there's a late cue, a mic glitch, or a noticeably flubbed line _—_ there aren't many of those, at least as far as he can tell, but there was one spectacular screw up when the kid who used to live one block down from him entered, slipped, fell, and played it off like it hadn't happened. Jordan thought it was the cover up and not the fall that made it so funny, but still people hadn't really laughed, so he hadn't either, just kind of chuckled silently into his sleeve-covered fist.

He'd almost forgotten Rayanne was in the play until she made her first entrance. When she does, he grows a little uncomfortable. Things were better between him and Angela since all that, but not solid. (There was still room to fail.) And sitting there silently beside his new girlfriend as they watch her old best friend in some weird play about he-doesn't-know-what wasn't helping. He shifts in his chair, but that only makes him self-conscious about how she's interpreting his reaction. He stays motionless and tries to watch. He almost wouldn't have recognized her. Rayanne. Her hair is tamed and traditional, her makeup is natural and flattering, her dress is old-fashioned but at least in some century it would've been considered normal; she's pretty. And she's not half bad in her performance. But he can't sit there watching _her_, next to _her_.

She's doing Angela. He sees it now _—_ the hair tuck, the big eyes, the crossed ankles, the jutted chin and just-so delivery of certain lines when she's excited. He wonders if others see it, if Angela sees it. _Will she get the cry right too?_ There's the head bow and eye lift. It's too weird. Rayanne Graff is the farthest thing from his girlfriend _—_ he doesn't want to see her playing his girlfriend. Jordan looks around the audience for a while, then leans into Angela's ear, "Gonna head out for a smoke." She nods to indicate she's heard, but doesn't take her eyes off the stage.

Angela remains frozen. Watching Rayanne with some difficulty.

...

Still in the first act, the scene on stage is a conversation between 'Emily' and her 'mother', in which Emily rushes to her mother to ask if she is pretty enough to make boys notice her. Grudgingly, her mother admits she is and then tries to turn her daughter's mind to other subjects. Angela closes her eyes almost as if in pain.

* * *

Meanwhile backstage, splitting his attentions between the cues coming over his headset and the controlled chaos that exists behind the curtains of a live theater performance, Rickie scurries to re-pin somebody's wig back in place. "Good enough," he says. "Just, don't move your head too fast. Okay, you're on."

Katimsky appears backstage. When they spot him, two actors rush over to speak to him and hug him quickly before their entrances. Surveying the activity, he addresses Rickie in a low voice so as not to be heard by the actors performing just feet away. "How's it going?"

From where he stands in the wings, Rickie smiles and nods, only briefly pulling his eyes from the action onstage, "Really well."

Katimsky gently sets his hand on Rickie's shoulder, "You're doing a great job, Enrique." Rickie registers only a meek smile, but it is evident that this actually means a great deal to him. Katimsky pats Rickie on the shoulder and leaves to return to the light and sound booth at the back of the house.

* * *

Exiting off stage after a scene Rayanne is giddy with excitement. Corey, dressed as a stage hand in all black, nods at her, "How's it going?"

"Didn't see anybody leave their seats." She can hardly keep both feet on the ground she's so pumped.

"Good job on the monologue."

"Really? This is like, the _BEST_ feeling." For the hell of it, or maybe because of the stage high, or some messed up residual thing of the Angela-Rickie triangle, she gives him a more purposeful smile. Corey smiles politely, and then averts his eyes.

* * *

Angela doesn't end up making it to intermission. She figures she made the effort. She finds Jordan in the parking lot sitting on his car hood. He sees her approaching and pulls the unlit cigarette from his lips. "It over?" Angela shakes her head. "Tino ever show?" She shakes her head again. He moves and stands before her, holding her by her hips, "You okay?" Angela shakes her head a third time and Jordan pulls her in and holds her, kind of resting his head on hers. Angela shudders a deep breath, and takes a step back, quickly wiping a single finger under each eye.

She breathes in, "Let's go." Jordan takes her hand and walks her to the passenger door, opens it, and closes it after her. He gets in and they drive away.

* * *

After intermission Sharon's left the wings backstage and walked round to the front of the theater. She enters the auditorium and makes her way down the far left aisle and in the darkness moves to slip into the seat beside Brian. "Hey Krakow," she whispers.

Caught off guard Brian's awkward in making room for her, "Hey. Hi," he whispers. He moves his still-balled-up sweater from the cushioned seat, and hopes she doesn't notice the slight sloshing noise it makes when he does. Sharon pulls out a notepad, pencil, and tiny flashlight. "What, are you _doing_?"

"I'm watching the play Krakow, is that alright?" Hearing herself she sighs then provides further explanation, "I'm writing the review for the newspaper. I watched the first half from backstage." There is a pause, and then she asks in an overly formal manner, "_Do-you-mind-if-I-sit-here_?"

"Go ahead."

"Thank you," she says curtly, as only Sharon Cherski can do. Eventually her eyes drift from the action onstage back to him, she studies him, "Why are you acting so weird?"

"What? Weird how? I mean, I'm not." Sharon gives him a slow 'If you say so' nod of appeasement, then redirects her attention to the show. After a bit, his eyes also on the actors, or, one in particular, he leans in to her and whispers, "So, what do you think?"

"It's good," Sharon nods, biting the tip of her pencil. "She's really good." No one needed to say who the 'she' was.

Brian's having a difficult time reconciling it, but despite his preconceived expectations, she _is_ good. "I know," he whispers. "It's kind of _—_ disturbing." Sharon looks at him strangely again.

* * *

After the curtain closes for the final time Sharon once more makes her way backstage and stands waiting with Rickie for Rayanne to come out of the dressing room. When Rayanne does emerge Sharon gushes, "Rayanne, you were unbelievable!"

"Seriously," Rickie says, "you were amazing."

"Really? It kind of felt amazing." Rayanne's expression shifts and she tries to come off nonchalant, "So," she hedges, "I guess Chase _didn't _come."

Sharon tilts her head softly, "Rayanne_—_"

But Rayanne shrugs it off, "No biggie." She looks away, takes a second, pops her lips, and fakes it. "So, Cherski, coming to the cast party?"

Other actors rush up in excitement to congratulate Rayanne and each other, and she disappears within them, leaving Sharon and Rickie on the sidelines. They exchange awkward smiles.

* * *

After the initial frenzy of post-show euphoria and the actors and crew have received and greeted their friends and family, the audience members there to congratulate them thin out, and the kids collect their things and start organizing themselves to head out. Nearing the exit with a group of other actors as they prepare to leave for the cast party, an exuberant Rayanne breaks away when she catches sight of Brian.

"Krakow!" Rayanne is beaming.

Caught off-guard by the enthusiasm she displays in seeing _him_, Brian stands there, a little uncomfortable, staring, "Hi." He's never seen her look like this _—_ so alive, so clear-headed, and happy, and pretty _—_ beautiful _—_ all at the same time. It's almost like it isn't her.

"What? What are you looking at?"

But it _is_ her. "Nothing. I just, didn't know you could look, like _that_." Rayanne gives him a medium-length knowing glance.

Finally spotting her Rickie comes closer and calls to Rayanne, "Hey Rayanne, let's go. Hey, Brian."

Rayanne turns and flashes at Brian, "Coming?"

_She'd been serious? Rayanne Graff's really bringing him to a party? A drama party sure, but a _party _nonetheless__, one to which she was _inviting_ him, not mocking him or ignoring him, or abusing him._ For a moment his mind churns over all the ways she might be using him or playing him, but when he glances at Rickie he sees no indication he should be worried, and when he looks back at Rayanne her large dancing brown eyes are delightedly earnest in their intent. Brian kind of swallows and without his knowledge his eyebrows raise. _What could he be getting himself into?_

* * *

In his car outside her house Jordan and Angela are making out. If not everything between them has yet fallen into place, this part certainly had. Between kisses Jordan whispers her name with intensity, "_Angela._" He pulls her closer. Slipping his hand through her shirt collar he pushes off her bra strap and clutches her shoulder, moving his hand lower to her chest.

She kisses him once more but then pulls back, "I have to go; I'm going to be late."

Jordan's not letting her go; he kisses her neck, her ears, "But you're _home_…" he rationalizes.

"Well," she kisses him, "_yeah_, but—" More kissing.

"Can," he stares at her lips, then looks longingly and devilishly into her eyes, "we go up to your room?"

"What for?" She bites into a smile. He loves the way her eyelids fall and lift when she thinks about the two of them together. He loves the way everything is new to her _—_ that her skin tingles when he touches her and her breath shudders when the tension builds too high. And the way her face flushes when he tempts her. She's right there, in his arms, beneath his hands, and all he wants is to get just a little bit closer.

"You know what for..." he utters and moves in and kisses her. "...Too soon to end the night," he manages between kisses. "I ... hate your curfew."

She manages a giggle. More kissing. "You're going to get me in ... trouble."

Jordan looks at her with the mix of mischievous sincerity he's mastered, and grins lustily at her, "No trouble." Just then the porch lights turn on.

Suddenly sobered Angela pulls away. "I better go."

Jordan takes one last kiss. "Goodnight."

"'Night." Angela exits the car, walks to her door, and having opened the door turns to watch Jordan drive away. He flashes his headlights then she quickly enters the house. Across the street, the windows in Brian Krakow's room are dark.

* * *

The cast party is at Ronald Everstein's house, the boy who played George Gibbs. His parents have gone to bed, Mr Katimski has gone home, and now it's the kids of the cast and crew hanging out in that odd high school mix of the sheltered kids who never party, some who wished they did and are ready to go nuts if given half the chance, and the others who just aren't there yet, and possibly never will be, and the kids who have a life outside high school drama and see this as the tame affair it is. There are people on the back patio, in the basement, in the living room, kitchen, hallways and darker corners. Some kids are drinking, but not everyone. Sharon's innocently flirting with some boys, and Brian and Rickie stand together observing the room. When Rickie walks away to talk to someone else, saying he'll be right back, Brian's left standing there alone.

Rayanne, who Brian hasn't seen for more than an hour, bumps into him as she passes. She stops, looks at him, looks away, and rolls her eyes before she decides to speak to him. "Past your bedtime yet?"

"You're always so nice."

"What're you _doing_ here, Krakow? You're not even part of the play."

Brian's in shock. "Are you serious? You asked me here."

Rayanne chuckles. "You're so easy." Although she is standing beside him speaking to him, Rayanne is avoiding eye contact and instead surveys the party. "Where's Tino? Did you see him at the play?"

"I, uh, don't know."

"Krakow," she looks at him, "you even know who that is?"

"Yeah. I met him at a party, like, two weeks ago." Incredulous Rayanne inspects him through narrowed eyes. "Well, kind of," he amends.

She laughs like he's a lost cause, "Krakow." Amused she shakes her head, "You ever get tired of being you?"

Brian looks at her, "You have no idea."

Rayanne holds his gaze; her large brown eyes verge on a twinkle but then settle as they really take him in. Holding steady Brian does not blink. Nor does he look away or swallow, nor does he do anything else to mitigate the connection between them. _Who would have thought there'd be something within them they had in common? _Rayanne Graff's eyes narrow, then, from the corner of her mouth and somewhere hidden in those two deep chocolate pools there sparks a twinkle. And then a conspiratorial grin. She leans in a bit closer, "You still have it?"

His brows lift, "The, uh, the 'flask'?"

She looks at him with widened eyes _—_ this should have been obvious _—_ "_Yeah._" She laughs at him again, almost maternally, "Yeah." Now more direct she asks again, "You got it?"

Brian nods. Though whatever this night holds in it, he wishes them sober when they reach it.

* * *

In Patty and Graham's bedroom Patty sits in bed with business papers. On the television, playing in the background is the scene from _It's a Wonderful Life_ when brother Harry goes to college with George's savings and he, once more, is left behind. Patty looks up from her papers, sighs, and looks over at Graham's side of the bed. Empty. After checking the clock, again, she tosses aside the papers. Patty now leans back, looks around the room, turns up the volume with the remote, decides she doesn't want to watch this scene, shuts it off, sighs again, then in time re-gathers the papers and returns to her work.

* * *

In a back hallway at the party, Rayanne and Brian are standing beneath a recessed light engaged in something close to something like an argument. She'd been halfway enjoying the evasive come-and-get-it run-around he'd been giving her about the flask, till she got that he'd never meant for her to get it.

All day it had been someone or something getting between her and that drink, and it hadn't been that big a deal, but now she wants it and is finished with delaying gratification. The push for the liqour though, had grown into something bigger than that, and now Brian's confronting her over latent grievances he's been storing up against her for months.

Not quite aware of how they ended up here, Brian feels the irritation within him rising and there he is, almost, kind of shouting at her, ending with, "You are so _self-centered_. You know that? _Life_ does not revolve around _you_."

"_Krakow_, just_—_" and out of nowhere she's kissing him. This is a sudden movement. It just all at once happens. He is totally amazed. She has surprised herself as well _—_ her eyes go big as she moves in _—_ and, after a passing moment of disgust, he totally goes for it. Brian Krakow wraps his arms around her, catching his fingers in her tamed and fragrant hair. Caught in inexplicable passion they fall back against the wall, turning one another against the stuccoed wall more than once.

* * *

Brian and Rayanne are no longer kissing but are now standing, looking at each other, trying to catch their breaths and wrap their minds round what just transpired. Rayanne has that hunched over, wide-eyed expression, just kind of observing him as Brian proceeds to kind of freak out.

"Oh my God! What just happened?!" He paces. "You don't even like me."

Rayanne appears less than bothered by any of this and she shrugs off-handedly. "You don't like me either." Her eyes follow him like he's some foreign being _—_ strange and of interest, but entirely impossible to predict. Her eyes widen in detached amusement with his next eruption.

"I _know_! What was I _thinking_?"

"Krakow," she reasons with him, never moving from where she stands, "you don't have to think all the time. See what can happen when you're not so uptight?"

Suddenly what she's saying to him makes sense. "Oh my God _—_ you're right." Brian stops, and turns to her; he looks at her, almost in awe.

"_And_…?"

Brian blinks. "It was incredible." Had he given her the time, she would have thought how dumbly sweet that little moment of self realization was, but he's lunged in to kiss her again, and without a thought she laughs and meets him halfway. They kiss, holding each other's faces, passionately and sloppily. Once more they break away.

He looks her in the eye, studies her pretty, freckled face, his mouth just inches from her own. "This doesn't change anything?"

"You're still Brian Krakow," she assures him.

"You too," he breathes, hardly believing it is him saying and doing these things. They kiss again. Tangled into one another they pull each other out of sight into an opened door that is quickly shut behind them.

"_Krakow_!" Rayanne laughs her exclamation of impressed surprise from behind the particle wood door. On the other side can be heard the muffled sounds of impassioned fumbling; straps are pushed away and a zipper is tugged down.

* * *

**DAY 4**

In the morning Patty and Graham are in the Chase kitchen preparing breakfast. Patty is dressed for work whereas Graham, a little wan, still wears a t-shirt and navy sweatpants.

Drinking her coffee as she puts the girls' lunches together, Patty asks coolly, "Did you have a good time last night?"

"Yeah," Graham looks up from the eggs he's preparing, "it was okay."

"Nice of your brother to go to all that trouble," she remarks evenly.

"No trouble," Graham brushes off. Spooning a scoop of goat cheese into the pan and drizzling in a little truffle oil, Graham livens up, "Hey, listen, you'll never guess who showed up last night."

Unamused, Patty responds dryly, "Who."

"Hallie." Graham works the spatula through the thickening eggs; behind him Patty's face deadens, but she puts her reaction on hold as Angela, still in her robe, enters the kitchen.

"Hey..." She shuffles in, still a little groggy. Angela looks first in the fridge, opens a cabinet, inspects the bagels, meeting everything with vague disinterest.

"Morning." Patty, who (though not menacing) remains silent during this general exchange _—_ still working over that last revelation, manages at least a smile.

Graham however, at best only slightly aware of the repercussions of his words, betrays nothing of the current tension between himself and his wife in his interactions with their daughter. If anything he is upbeat. And for that Patty is all the more conflicted: as always he is a great father _—_ so _there_ and present with their girls, but... _Where is that for her? Does he even hear himself? Does he see what he is doing?_

"Hey there," Graham greets his older daughter as she pulls down two plates from a shelf. "How's your night? What've you been up to?"

Leaning her hip against the counter Angela purses her lips to the side before answering, "Saw less than the first act of Rayanne's play."

Graham's brow lifts in surprised confirmation and he glances at her as he shuts off the burner, "You did? Good for you."

"_Was_ it?" she remarks acerbically.

Graham 'hmphs' appreciatively. "Well," he reasons as he pulls open the refrigerator to pull out the orange juice, "you never know what it'll be that'll reforge a friendship." Patty's eyes narrow as she listens to Graham speak these words. Angela pulls out glasses and passes them over. "'S good you went."

"I had to walk out."

"Baby steps." Graham winks at her as pours, "Rome wasn't burned in a night."

Angela shakes her head with a rueful smile, "You love that one."

"It's a classic," Graham chuckles, and hands over the glass he'd poured for her. Patty meanwhile finishes her coffee and moves past them to soak her oatmeal pan in the sink. Graham notes her silence and so directs his attention back to Angela, keeping the mood light and conversational as he plates the eggs and hands some over to his daughter. "So, how _was_ the play?"

Having no utensil Angela picks at the eggs, "Fine."

Graham swallows a forkful of his own eggs, "Lot's of people there?"

"I don't know," she says dully, "I guess." She finds a fork and pushes at her food, takes two bites, then hands the plate back to her father. "Thanks." Exiting the room Angela selects a piece of fruit to take with her, "I have to get dressed."

Graham chuckles and pushes the remainder of her eggs onto his plate.

"Find out what is keeping your sister please." Angela nods and Patty waits for her to exit earshot before preceding, then looks directly at Graham: "_Hallie Lowenthal_ was at the bar with you last night?"

Graham, at this point taken a little aback by this, glances at her. "Yeah. I mean, not 'with' with." It seems as though Patty's stopped blinking; he plays it casual, takes another bite. "I don't know how that happened. Strange coincidence, huh?"

"Very strange." Patty's delivery is flat and dry.

"So, anyway_—_" Graham takes another bite of eggs then offers her a forkful; she shakes her head "_—_it was a great time."

"Good." Patty's nod of affirmation is insincere, as is her tone. "Great."

To this Graham arches his eyebrow, and sets his plate on the counter, "That was convincing. Work on your delivery next time." And with that he exits the room.

* * *

At school, Rickie and Rayanne move through the central hallway together. They are engaged in conversation as they walk but additionally each is simultaneously having his and her own experience as they do.

Rickie smiles at Delia as they pass while Rayanne doesn't even register she's there. A few steps further when they pass Brian Krakow at his locker, Rickie gives a simple head nod and smile and moves on, meanwhile Rayanne and he seemingly ignore each other completely, though imperceptibly his body goes on alert _—_ in her presence Brian unwittingly stands straighter, blood rushes to his ears and cheeks, there is a faint humming in his head.

From somewhere within his lips seem to reverberate from their overuse the night before. Now several paces beyond Rayanne turns back her head slightly for a covert glimpse and finds he, like a heliotropic blossom, has oscillated his head to watch her. _Has she ever been looked at this way before? With fascination and appreciation and naive desire?_ She feels alive.

Against experience and her judgement, for a split second Rayanne's left eye shuts in a solitary wink. Then she's turned round again, talking to Rickie, and all is as though nothing at all had happened. Brian blushes, looks around the hallway, sees no one has witnessed this but him, then turns back to his locker.

Closed within the confines of the three rusted walls of his mid-century institutional locker, a slow inward smile spreads across Brian Krakow's face. This is an expression he's never till now worn, because novice though he still very much is, there is knowing behind it that's never been there before. Admittedly now more confused and conflicted than ever, Brian's coming to see the upside of _living_ a life than watching it. The observer has, at least for some part, become a player, and with that the paradigm of many things has shifted. With a heavy metallic finality, Brian shuts his locker door.

* * *

Leaning against her locker, Angela passively observes the activity of the hallway. '_So, going to the play wasn't exactly a success. Maybe it's a bad idea to think about making up with Rayanne_.' Her eyes shut and Angela combs her fingers through her roots. '_I don't know; it could be totally unrealistic. And I'm not exactly sure where I am with Brian. We might just have to pretend that things are normal before they actually get that way_.'

Jordan approaches. Breaking away from Laurence and Kirk to be with her, he smiles as he nears. "Hey." He too leans against the lockers and she smiles as he closes his eyes.

Angela turns her head minimally and glances at him. '_As for Jordan, things were good. Not that everything was perfect, but it seemed like we were getting more comfortable with each other._' He turns his head to her, his eyes reopening as his faces melds sedately into a vaguely contented smile. '_Like we could just kind of relax, and be ourselves._' Jordan straightens, takes her hand, and walks with her down the hallway.

* * *

_Posted 5/22/13_


	13. Getting closer

**_Small portion of a series of scenes that will lead up to Angela and Jordan sleeping together. _[_Much of what is written exists in the context of my continuation episodes which I eventually wrote into the ground; it will take some time to extract what parts I want to keep and what others need to be more fully written, etc. but this will eventually be embedded back into one of those._]**

* * *

On a dark, quiet nondescript residential street is parked a red Plymouth convertible, top up, windows steamed. Angela and Jordan are in the backseat messing around. Jordan moves to remove her shirt, but first slips his hand inside her bra. He's done this before and though she used to worry about disappointing expectations, she's overcome that particular insecurity and has come to enjoy the warmth and strength of his hand against her. Tenderly, adoringly, she holds his face to hers as they continue to kiss; his hair is so soft, and he smells so good, just like him, and his kiss is making her forget everything that is not her opening up to him. With no difficulty he unhooks her bra from behind, which elicits a subtle reaction from Angela: she would have hoped for a moment of fumbling, if only for show — the scales of experience were already so out of balance. Unchecked, Jordan moves from her lips to her ears to her neck and the small graceful nook in her collarbone as she runs her hands through his hair, cradling his head to her and trying to remember to breath. Jordan once again moves to remove her shirt, at which point Angela instinctually pulls her arms close together in front of her and breaks way from their kiss.

One hand cupped within the other, her eyes flit back and forth as she studies his face. He allows her this moment to regroup, his expression never shifting from impassioned adventuring. Angela's lips tighten as she prepares to say something. She looks down, back up, to the side, then back at him. Jordan hasn't lost his patience, he's simply waiting, a little breathless. When she speaks her voice is steady and thoughtful; while she's insecure, she is not speaking from a weak place. "You've done this before. _ More than a few times." Jordan exhibits no response. "Right? _ How many times have you done this?"

Studying her, having yet to exhale, Jordan speaks slowly, "I don't know."

"With how many people then?"

He moves back from her imperceptibly and looks at her, asking plainly, "Why?"

Angela takes a breath. "Because… I've never done this. _ Ever."

"I know."

"No, I mean," she searches his eyes, "I've never done _any_ of this."

"Yeah," he says simply. "I know." He looks at her in that way again and moves in hungrily for a kiss, pausing just before making contact, "It's okay."

Still anxious, she flatly says what she assumes he must be thinking, "I don't know what I'm doing."

But Jordan's still unfazed, and is still approaching the conversation with shrugging nonchalance, "You'll figure it out." He adds, "It's not a big thing." He moves in, and draws her in again to his kiss, slowly and casually. Angela melts into him, but when once more he moves to spread open her arms and with them her lifted blouse, and the now just pointlessly dangling bra, she once more breaks away.

Angela detaches herself and he watches her as she leans back, saying distantly, "I love this song."

They quietly listen for a bit to Pearl Jam's "Nothingman", but they do not make it through the full length of the song before Jordan eventually resumes their conversation. "Look," he reasons, "it's got to be new sometime; right?" When he looks at her that way, and uses that voice, clear, steady and certain, tinged with the air of throwing caution to the wind, it's easy to feel at ease.

She smiles and lets her arms drop from where they'd been blocking her chest, but as she remembers herself (her bra undone, and shirt slightly raised) she tightens up again. Jordan leans back and shuts his eyes.

While articulating her reservations, Angela's voice is straightforward and open, as it has been for the whole of the conversation; she's only mildly bothered to have to be communicating these thoughts to him "... But… I don't know… I don't feel at ease—" Covertly she glances down at her body. "I'm intimidated."

"Angela." He sounds a little tired of reassuring her, but he hasn't strained his patience yet, "_Relax_." The instruction's come out like a seduction, and he runs his fingers through a lock of her hair; lightly tugging the tips he pulls her to him, never taking his eyes from hers, compounding the intensity between them while all the while she is doing what she can to dissipate it; "I know we're not doing it tonight. So," his gaze boyishly lowers to her and where his hands had been, cupping, grasping, and teasing, "just, you know…" He looks deep into her eyes, "I want you to feel good about this."

Angela's overcome with her desire for him, swayed by his power of persuasion and the authentic seductive intensity of everything he says and does. It's hard not to submit. She nods her head once in resolve and smiles an ingénue's smile, "Okay." Angela smiles into their kiss as they begin again. Kisses deep and wet, hands playful and daring, bodies pressing into one another, she wants to be there and he wants to have her. Having spoken truthfully, knowing very well there's no chance of sleeping with her this night, he is enjoying himself in the moment. He is living in the electric anticipation and the rush of the new, the getting closer, and the changes in her looks, her muscle tension, her breaths, and kisses. He wants to see her this way, the way no one else gets to, and he wants her to see him, to hold him and touch him. Hers is not the only heart that is racing and she should know it, know what she does to him, know that he does not take her in stride, but is viscerally taking in every singular moment of her.

Emboldened and determined, Angela takes her shirt off herself, watching him watching her. Feeling adult and adventurous and newly alluring she watches as he in turn so softly slides the straps from her shoulders, tracing as the bit of cotton, lace, and elastic falls down her bare arms till it is just her, unhidden and exposed. He has never seen her this way. _So pretty._ In one seamless exertion he's pulled off both his Pendleton and white undershirt. They stare at one another, breathing in freckles and lines and curves — a weighted slope, an angled muscle... Eyes wide, her hands find him as Jordan's hands find her, and his lips. It feels new, and right. It feels like nothing before. She remembers to breath, and she trembles as she clutches at his hair while his mouth is otherwise engaged.

Eventually Jordan moves to undo Angela's jeans. He looks up at her, "Okay?"

Her first instinct is to reach down and move his hand back to her waist, to her face, to her slight breasts, but she knows she can't say 'no' forever, not to everything, not to what when she's alone in her room she fantasizes about. _She thinks about this, all this, with him, so why when she's there with him does it suddenly frighten her? How far ahead in the future will she still be rushing to pump the breaks?_ And he's still looking at her for a sign, his blue eyes hopeful and unsatiated, his deft, rough hand poised to effortlessly pop that top button with the slightest push of his thumb. His fingers, warm and steady, are already slipped inside the top of her 501 waistband, and she wonders what he feels beneath there, what he thinks, what he wants, who he is, what comes next... Angela nods and holds his face closer to hers. She kisses him, slowly, to steady herself, she's still trembling. As his lips meet hers and her tongue finds his, the button goes and her zipper pulls down, and that's one more first off her list. Jordan grins as he struggles to tug her pants off, feeling — for what, unbelievably, must be the first time — her long slim, smooth, unimaginably soft limbs. "You should wear more skirts." She laughs a small laugh and pulls him to her, crazy for the sensation of his warm chest pressed against her chilled awaiting self.

Angela in his arms feels like nothing else to him. _She is there, she is his. She is there to be with _him. It blows his mind. Every now and then he feels her legs quivering around him, and it's a sensation he's never experienced. _How is he doing that to her?_ He's not sure he's ever felt particularly loved, and maybe it's still way too soon to call this love, he wouldn't say it aloud for anything, but he feels safe in a new way. He feels _with_ her, like they're on the same team, like they're doing this together; that alone is a rush in itself. _He'd come so close to losing her, to losing all this. And he would have missed it, missed knowing what this could be like — different from all the times before. _He'd felt seen before, he'd taken things slowly before, and played and giggled, nothing in particular in this car is new, but still something with her _is_ new. _Better_.

They continue fooling around, kissing, touching, hands on faces, hands in hair, hands in other places… When for the third time her hands move down his smooth toned back and her fingers adventure just past the top of his jeans, he ventures to test the elastic boundaries of her one remaining article of clothing—

He pauses. "Angela." He gets no answer and looks at her, her eyes are shut and she is motionless. "_Angela_."

"… Huh?" Her voice is distant and it isn't him she's looking at.

Jordan pulls back slightly and really looks at her. "What happened? You froze up." His eyes narrow and she hopes he isn't angry, "You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Peering at her, trying to figure her out, he asks her, "You're scared?"

"I'm not."

Just slightly deflated and with a bit of a scoff Jordan shakes his head in disbelief that after all this, all the time, and all the conversations, she's still this freaked out. "You're scared." He exhales and backs off a bit, but not by much. "Angela, you need to say something. Sooner. And, you know," he gestures, "actually _say_ it. _ I can't read you."

Mortified, her eyes shut momentarily then she gives him a slight nod. "Okay."

He pulls back further till he's sitting upright, "_Say_ something," he directs. Jordan gestures, "Speak. It's supposed to be fun."

Not any less mortified, she averts her eyes and solemnly agrees, "Alright."

"Okay," he nods. Jordan bites his lip then moves in to kiss her, keeping his eyes on hers, purposely avoiding her exposed chest he so wants to consume and ravage. He does not kiss her, just whispers into her, his lips brushing hers, "We'll take it slower. But..." he pulls back and moves his hand, deliberately slow, down her chest around to her waist, pulling her in, connecting her back to her own body so that she feels alertly alive within it rather than self-conscious about it. Her lashes flutter and he would have loved that little signal that he was indeed making headway with her, except that his eyes were focused on other parts of her body, parts he sees less frequently than her eyes. "You need to be more relaxed." Knowing she'll have a hard time hearing this next part, he keeps his eyes from hers until he finishes, "You need to be okay with being more open with me. _ You're not supposed to turn white."

"_Oh God,_" she hides her face.

"Stop."

He reaches out and traces the shape of her lips with his thumb. Matter-of-factly and with some self-deprecation she says, "I'm mortified."

"The thing is," he says conversationally, "you can't be embarrassed. It just doesn't work." He kisses her good-naturedly. "We can slow it down, but you need to_ be_ there. You know, 'cuz," he catches her eyes to make his point, "I'm not here to be by myself."

_This makes sense. Of course it does._ But she wishes she hadn't needed to be told. Now it seems impossible to move forward, and she feels naked like she hadn't before. At somewhat of a loss Angela says somberly, "I should go home anyway." She reaches for her shirt but Jordan lightly grabs it and tosses it into the front seat.

"A curfew's not going to fix everything," he says. "Let's just…" and his voice deepens, like it does, and his blue eyes burn, like they do, and he leans in, like he does, and his lips tease and invite as they always do, and he near-whispers the rest of the thought, "have a good time..." He glances at the clock in the dash consul, "We've got twenty minutes."

Won over, Angela allows herself to lighten up and she smiles at him, confessing, "I'm crazy about you."

Grinning at her, Jordan commands in good-natured frustration, "Then come here." She moves in with purpose and newfound bravado, and he laughs as she kisses him. He laughs until the kiss catches his interest, and then he's no longer laughing. And those twenty minutes pass too quickly, though there was time enough for a handful more of firsts.

* * *

_Posted 1/27/13_


	14. You're up

Several months of dating after their reconciliation, Tino, Jordan and Angela are at a house party. The boys are drinking; Angela is not. Tino meets up with a girl, Jordan's trying to arrange Angela's fingers into chords for a guitar, while caressing her finger tips; from time to time he may subtly nuzzle his face in her hair. At 11:25, Angela turns her wrist towards Jordan to show him the time. Head tilted to the side, he looks at her for several beats, then rises and pulls her after him. Leading her by the hand through the house, he locates Tino and gives him a head nod as indication that it's time they head out. Tino pounds the drink in his hand, salutes goodnight to the people he's with and in moments is in step with Jordan and Angela, heading to the street to Tino's car.

As they head down the front walkway, Tino stops and digs through his pockets. Lighting a cigarette, Tino mumbles over the obstruction in his mouth. "Okay Chase, you're up." Taken aback, she looks around.

Warily, "What does that mean?"

Swinging his keys around his forefinger, "It means you're driving."

Angela's eyes widen, "Nooo..." Tino's head snaps to her direction in incredulity.

"Really?"

"I've never driven at night."

"Well, I tell you what, it's just like driving during the day - green is still go, red is still stop, and the gas and brake are still exactly that."

"But I can't see at night."

"You go blind at night? You need to see a doctor?"

"No…"

Jordan, sounding slightly bored, tunes in, scratching his head and shifting his weight as he swings a dropped shoulder. "Angela, just drive."

"Jordan, I crashed your car the first time I drove it."

"Yeah; don't do that."

Tino leans in to her, with mock paternalism and breaks it down. "See, what you do, is, you look at the road, you see something in the road, you go around it, or you stop. That easy." Noting Angela's unease, he stares her down, then turns his head in Jordan's direction. His tone changes and he's suddenly more abrupt as he moves on. "Fine, don't worry about it; I'm an award winning under-the-influence commuter." Angela, in turn, looks fretful. Jordan, behind her, reaches round her waist and pulls her in. He's drunk and he doesn't mind being this open - wanting her this close. And it's only Tino. Tino was always on her side.

"What did you think was going to happen?"

Tino lights a cigarette and shakes out his match. "You did see us drinking, right?"

"Yeah—"

Tino continues, as if diplomatically warning a child of consequences, "So, either you were driving us home or we were."

"I don't have my license."

"We don't have our sobriety." Jordan, per usual, has excused himself from the conversation. He never knew someone who could talk as much as Tino or Angela. Rayanne Graff was louder. And maybe faster. But for keeping a conversation going, ten minutes longer than it ever needed to last, it was these two. Angela did it because she worries. And she speaks what she thinks. She doesn't filter. Tino likes to hear himself talk, and refuses to filter.

Mulling it over, and turning to them directly, she interrogates, "What would you have done if I wasn't here?"

Rolling his head back, Jordan's tired of standing around "Drive. Or crash." Angela's eyes widen that he would be so cavalier about a car crash.

Tino runs right over her concern, dispassionately clarifying, "Stay over." He continues, teasing her by laying on the guilt. "But, some people have curfews..."

Jordan continues towards the car, "And, the clock is ticking."

Groaning, Angela looks doubtfully at Tino's gold, 1971 Cadillac. "Do I know how to drive this car?"

Beside her, arms crossed, also looking at his car, "Do you know how to drive a car?"

"Barely."

"It's barely a car." In return for his jab, Tino slugs Jordan and drops his keys in Angela's hands.

Angela groans again as she reluctantly climbs into the driver's seat. "This is how after school specials start."

Scoffing as he holds the door open for Jordan, then slides into the passenger seat, "Really dull ones where nothing happens and, 'Oh my God', all the kids make it home. God, I thought other people-" meaning Rayanne, "were drama queens." Angela starts the engine, and both boys mockingly cheer for her.

Jordan slaps her shoulders, "You got this," then settles back into the seat and shuts his eyes. Angela ruefully glances back at him through the rear view mirror, to which Tino taps insistently on the front windshield.

"Evel Knievel, let's try facing front." She checks her mirrors several times, then gingerly, pulls onto the road. Not holding out a lot of hope at this point, Tino side glances at her. "You have driven before? Catalano wasn't just making that up?"

"I have."

"Could you, maybe, act like it?" Angela grimaces, grips the wheel tighter, then steps harder on the gas.

…

Parked outside the Chase house, Jordan's still dozing in the rear - awake but eyes closed. Angela's turned off the ignition, but keeps her hands gripped to the wheel. "Now what?"

Tino reaches his arm around the back of her seat. "Now, you go inside and live to party—" he looks at her, and reconsiders in her case, "or not –" Angela makes a face, "another day."

Angela turns to both boys, "How are you getting home?"

Tino raises his hands, posturing innocence, "I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"Relax; I'm good."

"The drive home was fifteen minutes; if you couldn't drive then, you can't drive now."

From the backseat, eyes still shut, Jordan chimes in, "Girl Scout."

Tino grunts in agreement, and Angela rolls her eyes. "So we'll walk."

"You can't do that."

Tino plays it up like he's really conflicted by what she's said but that she's won him over. He reluctantly, if dramatically, acquiesces, "Well, I don't know… but - okay." He leans in closer to Angela's puzzled face. "You did just ask us to sleep over. Right?" Still lying back, Jordan kicks the back of Tino's seat. Tino chuckles. "Can't take it back now girl; no one likes a tease."

Moving on, she entreats upon him in earnest, "You can't walk home and leave your car on the street."

Brows raised, eyes circling in mock inspection, "There a crime spree I don't know about?"

Groggy and bored, Jordan extrapolates, "Her folks'll see the car and wonder why it's here, and how it got it here, and how they failed as parents, and 'how they can ever trust 'er again'."

Tino digests this. "Ya know what, Chase? My mother loves me; yours just sounds crazy."

"Just—" Tino waits, eyes wide, mocking her. "Hang out, till you can drive."

Reaching over to pull his keys from the ignition, catching her eye as he does so, Tino dryly lets slip, "Terrific plan." Angela rolls her eyes, removes the keys from his hand, and leaves them with deliberation on the dashboard. She then reaches behind her to the backseat and lightly double grasps Jordan's shin. He opens his eyes, shifts as he straightens up, and follows Angela as she exits the vehicle. Leaning back against the door, almost stumbling as it slams shut beneath his weight, Jordan grabs Angela, and pulls her to him. Wrapping her in his arms, one hand grasps her rear, the other is in her hair, holding her tighter as he kisses her. He's still self-possessed, but with the alcohol he's looser, and sloppier. Partially, moments like this fill Angela with a rush; he needs her. But, is there something wrong, with feeling this, when he's… like this? His face buried in her hair, he nibbles on her ear. Angela holds him, but is distracted, both by her impending curfew and Jordan's drunkenness.

"I better get inside."

Jordan raises both hands as if in a hold up, but pushes in hungrily for a kiss. Once extricated, she smiles, tucks her hair, waves once to Tino, who is now stretched across the hood of his car and smoking a cigarette, and rushes to the house. Jordan takes a drag from Tino's cigarette, and leans back and watches as she slips into the house and shuts off the porch lights.

* * *

_Posted 9/1/12_


	15. C'est Moi

**After just dating a little while - Angela and Jordan are in a rhythm, but they're still figuring out the friends**

After school, Angela's standing talking with Sharon and a couple other girls. Jordan advances from down the hallway to find her and she gives her friends a quick wave and a smile as she walks in step with Jordan. "So, guess what I just figured out. _ Your friend Tino's in my French class." She says 'your friend' not out of unfamiliarity with Tino, but just out of playfulness with Jordan.

"Oh yeah?"

Smiling, "I guess it took this long to realize since he's never _in_ class." Jordan laughs.

He stops walking as she lightly grabs his foream before she stops and takes a drink from the fountain they've just passed. Hands in his jacket pockets, Jordan paces before leaning against the wall, "Tino's been doin' that forever," meaning taking French, "you in the same class?"

Straightening and brushing her fingers over her lips, she starts down the hall again, as he follows. "It's split level." He nods. "And you know, for as little as he's been in class, he and I have the same grade." Jordan's unfazed, she clarifies her point, "Which means, if he _went _to class he'd have an A."

Descending the front steps to the parking lot, "Tino doesn't believe in A's; he sees it as a reward for being predictable." He adds, "I don't believe in 'em either; but that's 'cuz I never seen one." He slightly bumps her with his arm and grins at her, "_You_ get A's."

"I _get_ A's, I don't get _all_ A's. Brian, Sharon - _they_ get _A_'s." Standing beside her as they lean against his parked car, he tucks her hair, admiring her. Squinting in the sunlight as she gets back to her point, "You think Tino'd tutor me?"

Playfully incredulous, "_You_ need a_ tutor_?"

Coming to her own defense, "Can _you_ speak French?" Mumbling her frustration, "I can't keep the feminine and masculine straight."

Jordan smirks, "That sounds like a problem." He leans in and she smiles into a kiss.

"Do you think he will help?"

"Like you said, Tino doesn't do schoolwork, but," he considers, "he might do someone else's."

"Well, I don't want him to _do_ my work. I just want to learn it." Jordan focuses his attention on her; he looks at her, considering who she is - she takes homework, and school, so seriously…

"Want me to ask him?"

"I can ask him."

"You can ask 'im if you can find 'im."

"But do you think he would do it?"

Idly, he one handedly cracks each finger in sequential order on his right hand, "Why not? What else is he doing?"

"Should I pay him?" Jordan laughs – you don't do things for friends to get paid.

Straightening up and unlocking his car, "Just buy him some beer." Walking round to the passenger side, Angela gives him a look, reminding him that no one in their right mind would sell her alcohol. "Okay, I'll buy 'im some beer."

Her nose scrunches, "Well, that doesn't seem right. _ What if I make him cookies?"

Jordan nods decidedly, "Oatmeal. Done." Climbing in and pulling the door shut, he adds, "No raisins."

Also getting in, "Oh! N_o_ way," she chortles. Jordan chuckles and shakes his head at her apparent strong position against dried fruit in baked goods.

* * *

A bell clangs above his head as Jordan enters the skate shop Tino works in. From behind the counter, Tino calls out, "Watch out! It's the man, the myth, the Catalano."

Reaching Tino, Jordan leans into the counter, fiddling with a basket of wrenches as he speaks, "Hey, I need you to do me a favor."

"Yes; I'll go out with your sister."

"Shut up."

"No; I do not think you are pretty."

Jordan's face scrunches in confusion, "Huh?" He starts to move on but then he can't, "How is that even a favor?"

Laughing, Tino shakes his head, "I don't know."

"So, I need you to-" He cuts himself off again for the sake of the joke, "You don't think I'm pretty?" Tino chuckles, but even though it was his joke, Jordan's getting mildly irritated, "Can I say this thing?" Tino gestures for him to be his guest; "So, Angela needs your help with French." This really makes Tino laugh.

"_My_ help? Your straight-laced girl needs my help?" Jordan nods; Tino's amusement continues, "Can I get that in writing to give to my mother?"

"She knows you know French."

"But what she _doesn't_ know, is that other people - like your girlfriend - see me as someone to turn to during times of academic downturn."

Steering Tino back on point, "You gonna do it?"

Tino's mouth's open, but he draggs out a response… "Sure."

"Be nice to her."

"Man, did that need to be said?"

"I'm just saying."

"Am I Joey? Do I look like Trudenowski? Do I need to be told to be nice to Ms. Angela Chase?"

"Just, be cool," Jordan reiterates.

"_Be _cool? I _am_ cool."

* * *

Jordan drives Angela to a taco stand where she's meeting Tino for a tutoring session.

Angela approaches Tino who sits atop a tall stool at the counter. She smiles, "Hey."

"Bonjour."

"Thanks for doing this."

"_Merci._"

Angela nods, "Right."

* * *

_Posted 9/5/12_


	16. Get Your Thug On

**Maybe two or three months into dating**

In the hallway at the end of lunch, Angela stands with Jordan as he talks with his friend Nate. From the south entrance Shane and Tino approach, jostling each other as they progress down the corridor. Shane is ebullient, "Okay. It's on!" Everyone but Angela seems to know what this means; there are smirks and chuckles. Shane' head nods to Nate as he mentions his girlfriend, "Cathy came through with the Costco card - the car's all loaded."

Tino corrects him, "Both of 'em." Shane grins.

Tino nudges Angela, "You in?" Only afterwards does Tino think to check back with Shane, who at this point just shrugs.

Angela looks to Jordan then back to Tino. "I think I'm a little behind."

Jordan tilts his head towards her to explain, "It's his dad's anniversary."

Nate extrapolates this for her, "We're TP'ing his house."

Angela's face crinkles, she's still behind, "Shane's?"

"My dad's."

Tino provides the capstone to the story, "We hate his stepmom."

Shane's getting excited again and he shadow boxes Tino, "Do it twice a year-"

"Birthday and anniversary-" Nate contributes.

"For the past six years. Oh!" Tino's actually socked Shane in the stomach.

Grinning at his mischief, and patting the back of the now hunched over Shane, Tino brags, "And bad. Really bad."

Recovering from his knockout, Shane straightens up, and adds, still relishing past memories, "Drives 'em crazy."

Angela, still trying to get it all straight, asks, "But, don't they know it's you?"

Shane turns to her with a blank look, "And?"

"And," not really accustomed to questioning, or actually conversing with Shane, she hesitates, "don't they know to expect you?"

Shane blithely shrugs. "What're they gonna do?"

Leaning in a little, Jordan lays it out for her, "No cop's gonna sit outside a house waiting to see if kids throw toilet paper at it."

"But-"

Tino cuts her off, "I think this is why we don't bring skirts."

Jordan leans into her again, reassuring her, "It's fine." He'd never met anyone more afraid of the cops than she was. And considering her one encounter with the police, after he'd finally heard the real story, he didn't think she had much of a reason for it.

Losing interest fast, Tino takes charge, "Ok, reconnoiter at 23:00. Chase, how's that arm?"

Feeling slightly like she needs to defend herself, Angela nods, "I can throw a roll."

In turn Tino looks her over smugly, "Yeah? Okay, I want you all in black - think 'ninja'. Catalano, you're on eggs." Tino pats Nate's handsome, smooth cheek, "Shaving cream. Chase, I'm putting you on salt."

"Salt?" She couldn't imagine what that was for.

"Yeh, Na - salt," Tino repeats himself.

Nate, always nicer than the others, illuminates her, "Kills grass." Angela's expression turns worried.

Shane rolls his eyes, "Here we go."

But Tino steps in. "They're loaded - they can resod their lawn."

Jordan confirms, "It's not a big deal."

Shane, not wanting his plans thwarted, eyes Angela as he excuses himself from his friends. "I got more stuff to pickup." He points at Jordan before heading down the hallway, "Tonight." Jordan smiles and nods.

Nate too nods goodbye to the group, "Gotta find my girl."

Now that Shane and Nate have left, Jordan tells Angela, "You don't have to go."

Tino though takes offense to this and adds his two cents, "You don't have to if all you ever do is what 'you have to'. C'mon Angela, get in some trouble already. What's the point'a seeing this guy if you're always going to play it safe?"

With a wry smile she queries, "Is _that_ why he's here?"

Tino pushes further, "Wake up. Know you're _alive_." This word choice registers with Angela and he sees it in her face. "Say it with me now: 'TP.'" He cajoles her out of her silence, "I didn't hear that…"

"TP."

Not discouraged by her tepid response he continues to egg her on, "Uh huh. And who aren't we afraid of?"

Angela answers with a little more agency, "The cops?"

Tino grins; nodding slowly, he feels a real sense of accomplishment, "That's it." He pats Jordan's shoulder appreciatively, "There's hope for 'er yet." At this point he too heads off, but not before he turns back and points with intensity at Angela, speaking with authority, loud enough for passersby to hear, "And Chase, we don't tolerate snitches, turncoats, or pansyasses. Get your thug on." With that he moves down the hallway and reaches up and knocks against the fire alarm bell, creating a satisfying "ding" as he does so.

Angela turns to Jordan, amused and incredulous, "You TP?"

"Sure."

Loving this discovery she smiles as she scrutinizes him from her newly gained perspective, "It's not too juvenile for you?"

Disinterested in being Jordan shrugs, "Make an exception for Shane's stepmom."

More serious, her brow wrinkles, "So, how bad does it get?"

He slowly and deliberately pushes his index finger into the wrinkle, making the point, _'lighten up_'; "Don't come if you don't wanna."

Trying to pinpoint an answer, "Vandalism?" Scratching his head, he shrugs while swinging his shoulders, surveying the hallway. She keeps at trying to gauge just what she'd be getting herself into, "Anything that's gonna end the night with a high speed car chase, police in pursuit?" Jordan just laughs at her.

"Anyway," playfully shoving her, "you should be stoked, you always think Shane doesn't like you."

"Tino invited me," she amends.

Same difference to Jordan, "You're in with Tino, you're in with the world." The bell rings and they walk down the hallway.

She can't let it go, "You're going to kill the grass?"

"Oh my God."

* * *

The boys, are meeting in the parking lot behind Louie's. Jordan, Nate, Joey, Laurence, Kirk and Tino stand around their cars drinking and joking around. Angela returns from using the restroom, and Tino, who arrived late and's just seeing her now, lets out a hoot, "And she's wearing a black turtleneck! I love it."

Angela realizes, too late, that the ninja instruction had simply been hyperbole on Tino's part. She smiles, "Oh, did I miss the joke?"

"Forget it," Tino says warmly; "nothing wrong with following direction."

Joey can't resist the innuendo, "Eh, Catalano?" Dispassionately Jordan socks his friend in the side.

Angela chooses to skip over all this; she's never really warmed up to Joey. She looks around, "Where's Shane?"

Kirk does a head nod in the directions she's just come from. Shane and a younger boy, who looks exactly like him emerge from Louie's, both carrying armloads of toilet paper they've stolen from the supply closet. They dump them in the back of Shane's truck. Shane shrugs and lights a cigarette, "Can't have too much." He reaches into the cooler and pulls out a forty, pops the top, and hands it to the little guy beside him. Then raises his own beer, "To Litte Trude's first night!" They all cheer and slap the kid on the back. Shane gets that Angela hasn't met his kid brother yet, and he gruffly rushes through and introduction, "Angela, my little bro Zeke Trudenowsi," already sounding bored with the exchange, "Zeke, Angela Chase; she's with Catalano."

Angela subtly rolls her eyes that she has to be introduced with a qualifier, but she smiles and says, "Hi."

Zeke, the world's most self-possessed eighth grader since Jordan Catalano, responds with a tight lipped smile, raised eyebrow combo. Then he drinks from his beer. Shane, who doesn't actually have any problems with Angela, but enjoys giving her a hard time just for the hell of it, gets a real kick out of this.

Tino's bored, "Are we waiting for the eggs to rot? What's happening?"

Shane's all ready to go, "Yeah, let's go."

Shane, Zeke, and Joey take Shane's truck, with Laurence and Kirk riding in the bed, and Jordan, Nate and Angela ride in Tino's Cadillac.

* * *

Riding in the car to Shane's dad's house, Angela raises a question, "How old is that kid?"

Tino takes his eyes off the road to glance at her, "Zeke?" Eyes back on the road, "I don't know," looks in the rearview mirror to the other two; "What? Thirteen?"

Angela's trying to make her point, "And he was drinking beer?"

"Yeah, well, he tried to join the temperance movement, but turns out that died out sixty years ago," Tino winks at her.

Nate chimes in, "Angela, if it makes you feel any better, when Shane called his dad and stepmom from the hospital when Little Trude broke his arm, his leg, and had a concussion from getting hit by a car while on his bike, all the stepbitch said was, 'You ruined our vacation.'"

Tino winningly appeals to Angela's sense of right and wrong, "Come on, Angela – you'd begrudge the little guy a drink the first night he partakes in the great 'Screw-you-edenowski?'" Feigning outrage, "Come on!" Angela rolls her eyes and smiles in spite of herself. She meets Jordan's eyes in the rearview mirror and he winks at her. "Aw, there you go; now that's cute."

Jordan rolls his eyes, "Jesus".

* * *

During the most epic TPing that had ever been perpetrated, Jordan rivaled Tino in animation and bravado, which was a side of Jordan Angela rarely got to enjoy. She enjoyed herself thoroughly, and observing her work, the boys, even Shane, did not regret her having tagged along. She especially enjoyed the part when Jordan pulled her into the bed of Shane's truck for a quick mid-mayhem make out session. Eventually Shane's stepmom called the cops and his dad came out with a fire extinguisher – he knew from past years that using the hose on them only resulted in sopping wet toilet paper in his very tall oak trees – but the damage had already been done, and they were in their cars and on the road in less than twenty seconds.

Speeding down the road, out of the money neighborhood, Tino remarks, "They might as well save themselves the trouble and just hack those trees down." This is met with bouts of laughter.

Dropping Angela off outside her house, Angela's surprised to see Jordan also climbing out of the vehicle. In a loud whisper, "What are you doing?"

Jordan answers with confidence, "I'm coming in."

Looking around out of confusion, still whispering, "No you're not."

Jordan calmly smiles at her, "Yes I am."

Nate, climbing into the passenger seat, "Angela, yes he is."

"No."

Tino reasons with her like she's only just forgotten that, of course he's meant to come in, "You TP'd a house, now he's coming inside." Looking around, "Everybody good? Okay, goodnight then," he gives a quick wave to Angela, and he and Nate drive off to meet up with the others.

In the street, Angela stands wide-eyed, looking at Jordan. "I guess… I guess you're coming inside." Jordan, still several feet away, smiles sanguinely; after all, it was only news to her, it already having been decided upon. And by this, it's meant two minutes earlier – this hadn't been a plan from the start. She smiles at him, and then holds out her hand. In three lanky steps he's reached her and taken her hand in his. As she starts towards her house, she whispers back at him, "Be really quiet."

"Shoot; I thought this'd be a good time for a guitar solo." She stifles a chuckle as she retrieves her key and points for him to take off his boots.

* * *

**This story originally ended in the parking lot, but as I was reformatting it, I just kept going. Whether they sleep together or not is up for you to decide – I haven't decided exactly where this fits in my timeline, and that event keeps moving – but either way, this is not their first time (though as of now, it would be their first, and only time "in [her] bedroom while [her] parents are sleeping"). Thanks to anyone who's reading!**

___Posted 9/3/12_


	17. He would be the guest, not the meal

Angela's in the kitchen in the morning packing her lunch for school. Patty's behind her pouring herself a cup of coffee. Patty fondly sweeps up Angela's hair and gives it an affectionate little tug. Angela tilts her head back on her mother's hand, then continues making her sandwich. Actually, she's making two.

Patty crosses the room, pulling a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. "Angela, maybe you should invite Jordan over one night for dinner." Angela pauses, a mild look of alarm crosses her face. Noting this, Patty remarks, "He would be the guest, not the meal." Angela's confused and Patty clarifies, "My meaning being the horror-stricken look upon your face."

Angela turns slowly back to her task, tucking her hair, "I don't think so. … I mean, wouldn't that be weird?"

"'Weird'? No, I wouldn't think it'd be so weird for you to have your-" Angela makes a face anticipating the word that's coming, and Patty, who was about to say it anyway, now says it a bit to spite Angela, "_boyfriend_," Angela makes another face, "over for a meal." Patty watches Angela, amused by her discomfort, "I'm saying it's not unheard of. Or so I've been lead to believe."

Angela glances at her mother, "I don't think so."

"Perhaps," Patty fishes, "are we, hiding something?"

"Such as?"

"I wouldn't venture to guess."

Angela lays down her knife and turns round to face her mother, licking the mustard from her finger, "What do you want me to say?"

"God knows nothing you wouldn't want to."

Angela's eyes narrow, "Are you trying to ask me something?"

"Yes. 'Would you like to ask Jordan to dinner.'"

Looking closely at her mother, Angela inspects her, "Why?"

Pointing out the obvious, "It might be nice." She continues casually, "Jordan might like your father's cooking."

Angela is hesitant, "No ulterior motive?"

Patty remains breezily conversational, "Well, since you spend all of your time with Jordan and we never see you anymore, and he never comes to the door, I thought it might be nice to get you both into the same, well-lit, supervised setting for a little while."

Still a little dubious, "Uh-huh."

Patty tilts her head and dons her mom-voice, "Angela, as much as your adolescent mind would lead you to believe it, the world is not conspiring against you. It was an invitation."

Responding with mock formality, "No thank you."

* * *

Angela's sitting, knees propped up, in the boiler room during her lunch period. Jordan's across from her, leaning against some fencing, eating his sandwich, smiling absently at her. Angela looks up at him with mild trepidation, kind of making a joke of what she has to say, "So, my mother wants you to come to dinner." She pauses, trying to register a response before she continues; he doesn't give one. Angela takes his lack if a response as an implicit lack of interest; she speaks quickly, not wanting to leave him with the impression that this was something she'd wanted, "But, you know, I told her 'no'. Because, that would be weird." She tucks her hair, looking up at him, "Right?"

"It would?"

A little thrown, "Wouldn't it?" His blank expression pushes her to backtrack, "And anyway, you've already met both of them, my parents I mean, so, that's really all they can expect." Angela lifts her sandwich, prepared to let the topic rest there.

"'Expect?'"

"You know," dropping her knees, "to see of you. Because," choosing her words, "we're not going to like, start hanging out there. Right?" With still no clear reaction from him, she continues, smiling it off, "I mean, no."

"Huh?"

"I'm saying, you don't have to- You shouldn't feel-" amused, he looks at her like she's crazy; she shakes her head out of it, "This is stupid." She looks him straight on! "Do you want to come for dinner, 'Yes' or 'No'?"

"Okay."

Angela did not see this coming. She looks up at him, "Really? Why?"

Jordan shrugs, "I hate cooking." She wasn't expecting that; he straightens up, and crosses to her, pulling at her sleeve. She stands, and h e wraps his arms round her, pulling her in closely. Between kisses he pulls back and says, "You're parents aren't that bad."

* * *

_Posted 9/23/12_


	18. Trying something new

_**This is a collection of mostly isolated moments, strung together to piece together a larger picture...**_

* * *

**A moment at home:**

Jeff Catalano ducks his head into the hallway, "Hey! _ Jordan!"

From his room Jordan grunts, "What?"

"Don't talk to me that way."

Jordan gets this isn't going somewhere good and he steps out into the hallway, "What'dya want?"

Jeff walks past him without looking at him, "Get your car out of the garage, I need to get in there."

"I'm in the middle of -"

"Now."

"Okay, just -" His father cuts him off, he doesn't want to hear any excuses.

"You know, you don't listen."

"I said 'okay'."

"Not when you should of."

Jordan turns and grumbles, "Alright."

"What was that?"

Angry, Jordan shuts the exchange down, "Nothing."

Jeff does not let it go, griping instead, "That car has been nothing but -"

"What?" Jordan cuts him off. "You gonna drive me to school? To work?" The thought that Jeff would be complaining about Jordan's car is crazy to him. Jordan having his own way to leave the house is the best thing that happened to them.

"Shut up."

Stuffing his keys in his pocket and heading out to his car Jordan mutters, "Yeah. Okay."

"Kid, watch yourself."

"Or what?" Jordan dryly retorts.

"Get out of here," his father says with cool aggression. "I don't want to see you."

Jordan turns and walks away. "Fine."

"Hey. Hey!" Jordan turns back and faces him, waiting blankly for what's coming his way. "Things haven't changed - this is my house. You don't get to stay out all night, coming home drunk-"

"Yeah," Jordan grumbles as he turns round and pushes open the screen door, "that's just you."

"Watch the mouth kid."

"Yeah." Jordan lets the door slam behind him.

* * *

**A moment at school:**

In the Liberty hallways Associate Principal Wilson passes by Jordan and his buddies as he patrols the halls. The bell has already rung and he addresses the cluster of boys with humor, directing them to get to class with casualness backed by authority.

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen, start you engines," he prompts them. "And I mean those words loosely. Especially with you Trudenowski."

"Yeah," Shane chuckles. Loving that he's known by the administration for his reckless driving.

"Okay, move it along. Your classes are waiting for you." The boys kind of move down the hall, but still pretty aimlessly. They like Wilson well enough but that doesn't make them anxious to get to class any sooner.

"Hey Wilson," says Nate. "Hey, loan me that tie."

"You like?"

"Yeah man, it's sharp."

"Yeah?" says Wilson, walking with them, "Where you goin' sportin' a tie?"

"Well," steps in Shane, "he's got a date so," he proceeds pulling the AP's leg, "the bathroom in the bowling alley, or the back row of the half-off movie theater. Or there's-"

"So, keeping it classy?" nods Wilson.

"Always," Shane says, play shoving Nate. The boys are boisterous and clowning, except for Jordan, who's pretty much been walking a silent steady line the whole time. He's not sullen, he's just doing his thing.

Wilson smiles and head nods at Jordan, "Hey kid."

Jordan stops walking and turns, "What?" He's not unfriendly, 'cuz most of the time he's pretty cool with Wilson, but he's blunt now and to the point. He doesn't want to be called 'Kid.' He doesn't want to be buddies with the AP. He doesn't want to be noticed or called out, or anybody's special project. All Jordan wants is to keep his head down, get out, and have some laughs with his friends while he does.

"Oh, that's right," Wilson nods. The boys reach their classroom, salute the AP and then enter the room. "Hey, Catalano," Wilson jerks is head to the side, "hang back a sec." Jordan doesn't enter the classroom and he does hang back, but he's looking at Wilson dully, jutting his jaw to the side, waiting him out. Jordan looks up at the ceiling, slouches, then looks back at the administrator. "Piece of advice?" says Wilson. Jordan's expression indicates that he knows when adults ask this the advice's coming regardless of his response. "Don't be in such a hurry. When you're older, high school won't seem that bad. Listen, I know you're already working, and are pretty self-sufficient generally - and that's probably making this place seem pretty silly to you, all I'm saying is, I think when you get a little older, and figure out some stuff, you won't take yourself so seriously, and having time in your life that's just," he gestures to replace his lack of words, "light, and happy will be okay. It's not weak to be happy." Jordan looks blankly on. "Have a girlfriend, have a life. Maybe get married, have a wife." Jordan smirks, amused that this guy's resorted to rhyming.

"Where are you getting this?" As far as Jordan knows, he's not walking around with a cloud over his head. There's nothing he's putting out there that marks him as depressed or with a chip on his shoulder. Nothing he's doin' that's anything different from his friends. _What's Wilson on about now?_

"Never mind," Wilson smiles in spite of himself when faced with Jordan's apathy. "Shut up, get out of here."

Turning back into the room, Jordan pauses once more to say, "You don't have to work so hard you know." He means him. He means, '_Stop looking out for me_.'

"Yeah," Wilson shakes his head, "don't know what got into me. Forget it, get to class."

* * *

**The chance meeting:**

In the evening of a Friday night, Jordan's temporarily left Angela at his house while he went to pick up Shane from his job at the neighborhood hardware store. She looks up from her homework when the front door opens and through it Jordan's father unexpectedly enters. He walks past her into a bedroom to change shirts, comes out only halfway dressed, walks into the kitchen pulling on his fresh shirt and grabs a beer from the fridge. Coming back into the living room he opens his beer then stops and looks at her. She looks up from where she's seated at the sofa. He stares, she feels awkward.

"Hi," she offers momentarily.

Taking another sip he looks her over, "And you are?"

"Angela…"

He nods, "Girl on the machine." Angela doesn't make a verbal answer to this, and he looks her over again, sizing her up. "He around?"

She tucks her hair, "He'll be right back."

Jordan's father picks up the remote to the TV and with it indicates to Angela he'd been planning on watching something. "You mind?" Angela shakes her head and returns her attention to her books, which doesn't escape his notice. He sits on the larger sofa, leans back and flips through the stations until he finds a sports program. Angela tries to continue reading her book, Jordan's father lights a cigarette. They ignore each other.

Presently the front door opens again and Jordan enters a little agitated – he's seen his father's car outside and is uncomfortable now about having left Angela behind. Jordan looks at Angela who'd looked up the second the door had opened, then turns his attention to his father; Angela's eyes follow his. Behind Jordan stands Shane, not particularly thinking anything about anything, just waiting it all out to start his Friday night.

"Hey…" Jordan says cautiously. It's not clear whether it's to Angela or to his father.

"Hey there," says Jeff. Angela is unsure whether this greeting is just that or if it was meant to be cutting. She studies him as he continues speaking to his son. "Met the girl." Jordan moves further into the house. "She reads."

Jordan glances at his father, crosses to Angela, then picks up her bag and lightly tugs her off the sofa, "Com'on." To his dad he says a quick, "Later." Shane, still in the doorway, waves a quick salute to Jordan's father before he turns and heads down the front steps as Angela and then Jordan follow.

When the door shuts and they're crossing the yard, Jordan speaks up, "Sorry. About that. Him."

Angela watches the aggravation in his face, "It's fine."

"I didn't think he'd be around."

"It was fine," she assures him.

Jordan isn't especially worried about anything in particular, but he hadn't expected this, and he's just a little anxious about her being around him. Or, him being around her. "He say anything?"

Watching him, she slowly shakes her head, "Mm, mm."

"It's cool. We're all cool," Shane interjects. "Angela survived a Catalano encounter." Placing his hands good-naturedly on Jordan's shoulders and kind of shaking him, Shane leans into Jordan so that he hears but Angela necessarily does not, "Relax. Look, so he's not a good guy, he's not a monster. Everything's good."

* * *

**A night spent in:**

Angela and Jordan are hanging at his house, just lounging in the dark room lit only by the flickering TV, which they are not actually watching. The front door opens and Jordan quickly looks over, Angela follows his gaze. Rather than the mild irritant of the intrusion of an unexpected friend, as is pretty typical, Jeff, Jordan's father, has come home early. Jeff enters the room and without bothering to turn on a light he passes through to the kitchen. Stiffening, Jordan only watches, and Angela follows suit. From the kitchen Jordan hears the distinct 'clink, clink' of ice dropping into a glass. It's not water that will follow.

Jordan exhales, "I'll take you home."

She looks at him, "Do you disappear every time he shows up?" Disinterested in talking about it, he tugs her off the couch and grabs his keys. Angela says nothing more about it but she thinks, as she follows him out the door, _how strange it is to live in a house that is so clearly not your home_.

* * *

**Something new...**

On an unusually warm afternoon after a long day at school Jordan's taken Angela back to his place to fool around. Cozy on his bed in the warm room it does not take long before they both drift asleep. At some point as they nap curled into one another, Jeff Catalano passes by the partially open door to his kid's room and sees someone's in bed with his son.

As Angela awakes gradually she snugs against Jordan for a bit before she reanimates. She kisses his ear. And his neck, and pushes hair back from his forehead. He stirs, open his eyes, and slowly focuses on her face.

She smiles at him and speaks softly, "I gotta get home." He nods, lays with his eyes closed, then rises. Grabbing his boots in one hand he takes her hand in his other and walks her down his hallway through the kitchen to the back door and to his car.

* * *

When Jordan returns from taking Angela home he walks from the back door down the hallway toward his room, but his father, who's sitting at the kitchen table calls out to him.

"Who was that you had over here." Jordan pauses. He hadn't realized his dad had seen Angela was there. He hesitates about what he wants to say. "Same girl that was over here the other day?"

Jordan's not sure of the 'right' answer, just that his preference would be not to answer at all. "_ Yeh."

"She got a name?"

Wary of where this is going, Jordan eyes his father as he answers, "_ Angela."

Leaning back in his chair he asks, "What's her story?" Jordan shifts from one foot to another. "You know 'er long?"

"Uh," Jordan scratches his head, "October?"

"Long term!" Jeff laughs. Jordan's eyes roll; he hates to be patronized. His father takes a drink from his mug as he asks dryly, "She the one?"

Jordan scoffs, and smiles in spite of himself, "The 'one'?"

"Sure. The girl you stop seeing other girls for. Or," he pauses to take another drink, "tell yourself you're going to anyway."

Jordan's dispassionately incredulous about this, "You do that?"

"Sure. It's even good. Now and then. Look," he gestures, "play the field, nuthin' wrong with that…" Swallowing another sip of his coffee he amends this with, "Course, there can be more than one 'one'."

This sentiment from his father does nothing in the way of surprising Jordan. His old man is full of bad behavior cleaned up with charming but thoroughly empty words. Still Jordan feels obliged to validate him, "Right."

"You should bring 'er round."

Dryly, if not suspicious, Jordan asks, "Why?"

"Cuz I said." Though it could have, this did not come off as a threat. Jeff notices Jordan looking at him challengingly, "What? There a reason you think that's a bad idea?" Jordan's conflicted, hesitant. He's deliberating what course to take: say 'alright' and he's pretending they're something they're not, not to mention dragging Angela Chase into it; turn him down, who knows where that'll take 'em. His father sees this - his son suspicious, ill at ease just to talk; he takes another drink, leans back, and sighs, "I never wanted to be my father"

"You never really wanted to be my father," Jordan answers back. Jeff looks Jordan square in the eye, stoically holding the gaze, not betraying any emotion. In time he rises, exhales, pulls two beers from the fridge and tosses a can to Jordan. Jordan catches it, still watching his dad - not fully won over.

Popping open his can, Jeff crosses the room, "How's work?"

Still watching his father, holding the unopened beer, not uneasy, but not at ease, Jordan answers. "'s fine."

"Should I ask about school?"

"If you want." After a moment Jordan decides to cave and give him something a little more, "It's fine." Jeff nods. One eye still on his father, Jordan finally opens the beer and brings it to his lips.

Jeff attempts a joke, "What'd ya do, steal the tests?" Jordan's mildly irritated by this, but doesn't really show it. As per usual, he just lets it slide. His dad continues, talking casually into his beer before taking another drink, "Stole a few tests in my day." He looks at Jordan, "Still got the girls doing your homework?" Jordan looks at his father. "Didn't think I knew 'bout that?" Jordan's blank stare does not alter. "Hey," Jeff shrugs his rationalization, "what they give, feel free to take." Jeff swishes his beer can in a small semi-circle, "Not saying you don't have it wired. It's a good thing to have wired - women." Adding for his own good measure he says, "Could be all you got."

Speaking into his beer Jordan's compelled to point out, however 'wired' his father seems to think he's got women, he is "Twice divorced."

But Jeff is universally unaffected by his stats, "Not my fault. And marriage's great, but no one said it's sp'sed to last forever." About Angela he says, "Stick it out till it's not worth it." He finishes his beer and tosses the can into the kitchen sink. "I'm headin' out." From down the hall he calls back, "Jordan. Pick up more beer." Jordan watches his father leave, takes a look at the beer in his hand, takes a drink, then rolls his eyes, and shuts them.

* * *

A couple weeks later, Jordan's father enters the kitchen where Jordan's sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal for dinner. "Hey." Jordan doesn't really acknowledge him. "Kid." Jordan stops eating and does look at his father, but still doesn't say anything. "How's it going?" Jeff's attempt at casual conversation doesn't quite mesh with his abrupt demand for acknowledgment. He pulls up a seat and commandeers his boy's coffee. "Still seeing that girl?"

"What girl?" Jordan knows very well who his girl is, but his father could mean anyone. Least he thinks he's being funny pretending he could mean anyone.

Loving that this his how his son thought to answer this question, Jeff chuckles, "'What girl'?"

Not getting what his father's after, Jordan's eyes narrow, "How come?"

"Are you?" Jeff asks without giving Jordan anything more. Wordlessly, Jordan indicates that he is. Glancing sideways Jeff pointedly asks, "She ever over here when I'm home?"

"She's never over here at all."

"Uh huh," he's not buying it.

"So?"

"So," Jeff gestures, "bring her by."

"Why?"

Laughing at his kid he asks pointedly, "What? You scared?"

Pushing himself back from the table, Jordan's response is dry and sarcastic, "Yeah, that's it.

"That's cute," his father patronizes.

* * *

At school under the bleachers with his friends at lunch, Jordan pulls Angela away and leans in, "Listen, I need for you to come to my place tomorrow."

"Okay. Any reason?"

"My dad wants you over."

"Really? _ Three weeks ago you were all out of shape when I was in a room with him for ten minutes; now you want me to come over and hang out."

"Well, I'll be there."

"How come? I'll do it. But, why?"

"He's trying something new."

"What's that?"

Biting his thumb, Jordan takes a stab at it, "Not being an a-hole." Gesturing, he says, "Look, you don't have to. It's just-"

"I'll do it." Jordan never asks her to do anything. Well... But he never asks her to do something for him, not like this, specifically not something to do with his father. _Of course she'll do it_. He looks at her, and she tells him, "It's not a big deal."

With mild humor Jordan points out, "Well, you don't know 'im." She smiles.

"You had to meet my parents."

Smiling back at her Jordan's compelled to tell her, "Not exactly the same thing."

"Well, anyway." She shifts her weight, readjusts her backpack straps, twists back to look at the main building, scratches her head and tucks her hair. "How do you feel about it? His… new approach?"

Jordan shrugs, "He wants to be something closer to nice, I'll play along." He looks at her, but looks away when he sees she's looking at him with meaningful understanding - automatically he brushes her off. "It doesn't matter."

* * *

The following day, outside his house in the rain, Angela and Jordan sit in his car, not quite ready to go inside. The car is warm and the repercussions of the raindrops landing on his car create an intimate space for them.

Looking past her towards the house, Jordan broaches the topic, "So-"

She looks at him, "You don't need to prep me."

"The thing is - he's not hard to like. People - they like him."

"You don't," she says plainly. Jordan doesn't know what to say; it's too complicated for him to comment on like this. When he doesn't say anything she speaks up, "I'll take your word for it. I'm on your side," she affirms.

Jordan shrugs, "Don't know if there're sides."

"Well, I've got your back." The thought of Angela Chase saying this about him and his dad makes Jordan laugh. Exhaling, he tilts his head towards the door as his hand grips the handle. "'s go." She smiles at him, then pulls her hood over her head and exits the car, rushing with him to the front door.

* * *

In the main room off of the kitchen, Angela, Jordan and Jeff Catalano are seated around Jordan's grandmother's dining room table. Angela is maybe a little too dressed up, like she's going to church; her hair is fastened to the side and softly curled and she is wearing a blouse and skirt her mother had bought for her last winter. Jordan isn't quite clear why she is dressed this way. Not only does he not understand why she'd gone through the effort, he also does not understand why she is dressed in clothes he'd never even seen her in. She didn't quite look like herself.

"So, Angela?" She lifts her head to look at him.

"Mm, hm," she tucks her hair and holds her fork in place as she looks to him.

"Long time no actual meet. Right?" Jeff says, his words casually engaging.

"Yeah," she smiles faintly. Jordan's leaning back in his seat observing, staying quiet.

"So," Jeff says. When he speaks to her he is smiling, friendly, but his words have an edge - what she feels is a mocking tone. It is unclear whether he means for it to be there or if this is how he speaks. "What's your story?" he asks.

"Um…" at a loss for what to say she smiles.

She's there for Jordan, and she came there to make things easier for him, but all this smiling is in spite of herself. She wants to make a good impression but she does not want her nervous politeness to cost Jordan something. The problem is, he asked her to be there, to smile and do what she's doing, she can't then think of it as a betrayal if she does. She glances in Jordan's direction, but he isn't looking at her.

"Let it go," Jordan says to his father with brusque dispassion.

"What?" Jeff asks innocently. "Thought we did this to get to know one another. I can't ask 'er anything?" Jordan slouches minimally and lets it go.

Jeff continues, Angela takes a bite, "You live round here."

Angela tucks her hair, "Um, not far. Elm and Vincent."

Jeff's eyebrows raise at the address, "Nice."

"Stop," Jordan says, cutting him off.

Jeff looks over at his son, then smiles back to Angela, "Whatta your folks do?" He tacks on, "Clearly you still have both."

Angela scoops some food with her fork as she looks up at him from her plate, "Um, my mother manages a printing company, and, my father's um, opening a restaurant."

"A restaurant?" he's impressed. "That's big."

Smiling, Angela again tucks her hair, "Um, yeah, I guess."

"It is." He takes a drink, "I'm in maintenance at the train yards. Played baseball before that. 'Fore my knee." He gestures to Jordan with his fork, "This kid did too, till he quit."

"Ya done?" Jordan is.

"We sposs'd ta sit here in silence?" Jeff poses to Jordan. "Food's not good enough for that." Jordan rolls his eyes. His father has a point: he'd brought her over, he can't expect them to not interact. _Sure, _he'd made a few remarks about money, and he had that mocking look in his eye,_ but yeah, okay, nothing that bad was happening._ So he had to say something.

Head ducked, he gestures to his father, "'e played in the minor leagues in Texas." Jeff's pleased about the new direction this is going, and Angela smiles as if she cares.

* * *

After dinner Angela and Jordan are in his bedroom behind closed doors. Jordan's leaning into Angela against his wall, hovering over her, not breaking eye contact as he delays making contact. She wants him to kiss her, but he's enjoying this quiet moment between them now that they're away from his father.

"So, what'dya think?" he asks her.

"Uh..." she looks into his eyes, completely disinterested in talking over his father. She kisses him. It works for him. He pulls her to the bed and she happily follows.

* * *

_Posted 11/6/12_


	19. Here Comes Marie

**Preface – Junior High**

Thirteen-year-old Tino and Jordan sit in Tino's room, looking at photographs. Tino's is a Polaroid of his mother at eighteen. She is young, pretty, looking straight into the camera, her curly hair – the same dark blonde shade as his – framing her face. Jordan's is one of the handful he's found of his mother. A couple years ago he found a stack of photos of her on a high shelf in the hall closet. He took them, and every now and then he looks through them. Mostly they're from when they were first married. When she was pregnant and when Jordan was young. In this one, she's nineteen or twenty, and she is standing against a wall, her face lit by, and partly reflected in a window. The photo shows only from the elbow up, and only her back, but she is nude, and she wears the most captivating expression on her face. Her beauty, her countenance, they're mesmerizing.

Tino reflects on the younger version of his mom, "She was really pretty." Looking up, "I mean, she still is."

Looking over Tino's shoulder Jordan reflects, "I like that no make up thing."

Thinking aloud Tino posits, "Think it means anything, both our moms were so young and…" looking for a way to say it he settles on: "_Not_ feo?" A glance in Jordan's direction tells him to translate. "'Not bad looking?'"

"Like?"

Not exactly sure himself what he meant, Tino just makes a joke. "We clearly didn't get neglected by the looks." Jordan chuckles because he knows while Tino's handsome, if a little goofy, he'd never seriously sit around and call himself good looking. Now getting closer to what had been his original point Tino asks, "Think it ruined their lives?"

Jordan nods to the picture to indicate Nancy, "She seems okay."

"She's worried I'll end up with a kid. You even more."

Jordan's entertained by this, "Why's that?"

Good-naturedly smacking Jordan in the forehead with the Polaroid, Tino extrapolates for his friend, "'Cuz I'm smart, and you're 'dreamy'." Taking another look at the photo he reflects, "I definitely don't have her nose."

Jordan knows that's true. Wondering now, as he's never really thought of it before, Jordan asks, "You know who he 's?"

Dropping his photo back into an old metal construction site lunchbox, Tino is genuinely flippant, "Some John in a plane, riding first class." Jordan, still young, smiles at the abstract idea of it. Tino takes another looks at Jordan's photo. "Wow." Looking at Jordan he has to point out, "You know, it's him she's looking at that way."

Jordan's very matter-of-fact about it, "You don't have to be nice for them to look at you that way."

* * *

**After end of show – Jordan and Angela have been dating a couple months**

At home in his kitchen Jordan's in the process of throwing something together for dinner. The telephone rings and he crosses the room to answer it. "'lo?"

A woman's voice is on the other end, deep and rich. She speaks his name, "Jordan?"

"Yeah." There's a pause on the other end; she doesn't speak. "Hello?"

Momentarily she speaks again, her voice fractionally less confident than it had just been. "It's Marie." She waits for him to respond, but he does not. She tries again. "Marie Lausen." Still waiting for some kind of confirmation from his end she adds, "Formerly Catalano…"

Jordan's eventual response is brusque, "Yeah."

She thought there might be more, but when it's clear he's saying nothing further, she proceeds. "How're you?" Still nothing. She continues, seeing this is the way it's going to go. "Okay... " She starts again, "Listen, I'm going to be in Pennsylvania next month, and I wanted to see you. _ Would, that be alright?"

"Huh?"

Up against Jordan's austere, monosyllabic responses, her tone remains pleasant, regal, conversational. By all appearances the past is not weighing her down - a surly petulant teenager is all she's dealing with, and she does so by taking it all very lightly, like one deals with a child. "If I came up there, would you see me?"

"Why?"

She smiles over his bluntness, "Well, you think about it. I'll give you my number, and—"

At this he speaks up, "No." He swallows, "I don't want your number." After everything, Jordan's not being left with the responsibility of calling his mother.

Unfazed that he refused the number, she instead sees that he didn't say 'no' altogether. "But, you'll think about it?" No response. "I'll call you when it gets closer? _ I'll call you."

"How'd you get the number?"

Her response is breezy, as if it should be so obvious, "It's never changed."

"Right." Nine years. In nine years they hadn't moved, the number hadn't changed. And today she decides to call. She starts to say something more, but he cuts her off. "Look, I gotta go." Jordan hangs up the phone.

* * *

In the morning, Angela exits her house and gets in Jordan's car. Instead of starting for school, he sits there. She looks at him studying his face, waiting for him to speak. Momentarily she says, "Morning." Jordan halfway replies with the slightest head nod, but nothing more. She waits. She tries not to just stare.

Angela cannot gauge his mood. _Is he angry? Did something happen? Is he trying to find a way to say something? Is he simply tired, or debating whether to skip the whole day?_ Eventually, without a word and hardly a look in her direction, he starts the car and they drive to school.

Their drive to Liberty is quiet. Angela is partly waiting for Jordan to speak, and now partly in her own thoughts. Sometimes Jordan doesn't speak.

Finally Jordan does speak, but not so much to her as just out loud, going over the circumstance. "So, my mom called."

Angela looks at him in total surprise, which he does not notice because he is facing straight ahead. It takes a second before she settles on the question she actually asks, "For what?"

Still looking out the windshield, he shrugs. "Say 'hi'?".

Speaking with some trepidation Angela ventures, "I thought that-" She cuts herself off and Jordan looks at her, trying to discern what she'd started to say. She realizes saying that she'd thought that his mother was dead is not the best course.

His eyes narrow, "You thought what?"

With a tight-lipped smile Angela tries to cover, "Nothing." Finding her next words she says to him, "I didn't think you spoke."

"Haven't, for nine years."

* * *

Angela and Jordan are at her locker. He leans against it, staring down the hallway as she exchanges her books and drops off her lunch.

"So, what happened?" Jordan turns his head back to her dispassionately, and looks at her, gauging her interest.

"She left." Still leaning, still casually detached, "Lisa's mom divorced the old man, my mother moved in. When Lis' mother and aunt died in a car crash, she had to move in, there was no one else." He straightens up, repositioning his weight against the locker, "She was seven, I was - four."

"Why'd she leave? Your mother."

He shrugs, and flicks something off his sleeve, "She just did."

Looking at him, intently searching for some emotional marker, "And?"

"And, then she was gone." Jordan shuts her locker and heads down the hall.

…

Angela stands with Jordan beneath the bleachers during lunch as she picks at a sandwich while he smokes a cigarette. His friends are standing around, but no one's talking to them at the moment, and using a low voice, she broaches the subject again. "What do you think she wants?"

Picking a piece of tobacco from his tongue, "I dunno."

Hesitant to push too hard, "Are you going to talk to her?"

He looks at her, more sharply than he is want, "Can we, like, not, talk about this anymore."

She nods. "Sure." He looks at her, with a twinge of regret for cutting her off for talking about something he'd brought up, but she had a way of giving meaning to things that he just wanted to let be, and not everything needed to be sincere.

He makes himself make an effort to say something nice, "Thank you," then joins up Joey and Marcus.

…

Before Angela has to be home for homework and dinner, Angela and Jordan are making out in his car, parked in the lot behind the market. Still entwined with her, Jordan pulls back, exhaling. "So?" His blue eyes hold her gaze, "What do I do?

Angela's mouth opens, but, she doesn't know exactly what to say; she's utterly stumped. Her eyes dart back and forth, searching his face; she's so reluctant to say the wrong thing - to go too far or to let him down, "I … dunno."

Jordan's attention turns towards the window, but he takes a sideways look at her, momentarily, slightly irritated, but he looks away again, distracted, thinking. "I don't get what she wants."

"You don't, want to see her?" Jordan sighs. Angela is quiet. "… Have you, talked to Tino?" Angela knows she doesn't have near the full story on Jordan's home life, and more than feeling out of her element, she doesn't want to steer him in the wrong direction.

He swallows. "Nope." She opens her mouth, thinking. He looks at her, as if to say '_I came to you; this is what you're supposed to want._' She closes her mouth. "He's gone." Hearing himself getting too curt, he expands, "He's, ah, in Florida. With his mom. For, a couple of days."

"Lisa?"

Slight shrug, "'s not like we talk all the time. _ I don't really care what she has to say. Her, not Lis."

"You're not, not curious?"

Devoid of any emotion, "No." He scratches the back of his head, exhales, reverting back to his default position, "What do I care?" Absently he pushes a hair away from her face, "Whatever."

Briefly nuzzling her head against his hand, she looks up into his eyes, "… Did you, tell, him?"

Scoffing, "No."

"What would he say?"

Shaking his head, "Don't know. But, I haven't been sitting around waiting for her."

Speaking for the first time with assurance, "Seeing her doesn't say that you have." Her confidence in this catches his attention – Angela's takes on things often take him by surprise - but he doesn't know whether he should take her word on this.

* * *

At Jordan's request, Lisa has driven to Three Rivers and has stopped in to see him at his work at the filling station garage. She's perched on a wooden table as he changes the oil for a red '83 Toyota. Sliding back under the vehicle, "What do you remember?"

"Not a lot. I wasn't there for a lot of it."

"C'mon." Jordan's not accepting that. Lisa'd lived with them for four years. She'd been eleven when his mom walked out.

Lisa thinks. When her mother died, Lisa hadn't wanted to move in with her father. When her parents divorced when she was nearly three, her mother had kept her away, and Jeff Catalano hadn't really made a thing about it. Lisa's aunt was to be her next of kin if anything had happened to her mother, but when they were both killed, the only one around was Jeff. Lisa's mother's family was basically all still in Mexico, and so at age seven she moved in with three strangers. Jordan and she had taken to each other immediately, and Marie – Marie had been kind, and a friend. Never a mother exactly, but Jordan wasn't the only one hurt when she disappeared. Nine years later, Lisa only saw her as the person who left them there. Her own mother had done what she thought was enough to keep her out of his house; Marie just let it happen. 'Let' wasn't even the word – she's _why_ it happened. To remember anything more than that took a little time. "She was beautiful."

Curtly dismissive, "I know that." Both his parents were. At this point, what did any of that matter?

Still remembering, "Brown eyes." Small laugh, "Great hair."

Loudly dropping his wrench and grabbing the metal pan, "More."

Lisa looks at him as he slides back out from beneath the car; she thinks. "She had a good laugh, but I don't remember her smiling a lot. She had a great voice; one of those really wonderfully deep voices. She was nice, but … distracted - she always seemed like she was looking past you."

Jordan pauses to reflect, "I don't remember that…"

Shrugging, "And they fought. They laughed, but they fought. But, she never seemed fazed." Jordan exhales and wipes his brow. Lisa doesn't know what else to say; she doesn't know if it's a good idea he sees her. But she says what she knows is true. "She liked you."

"Clearly."

* * *

A few days later, Jordan's lounging in Tino's backyard while Tino hand rolls his cigarettes. Tino glances at Jordan as he lifts the paper to his mouth and licks it, "What's the big deal?" Jordan glowers at him, knowing full well that cavalier flippancy from Tino is no indicator that he isn't taking something as important, but choosing to be irritated by it anyway. Continuing, Jordan's glare not giving Tino a moment's pause, "Just do it. See her. If you don't care, there's nothing to lose." Pointing out a potential upside, "Hey, maybe she's got money." Amused, Jordan scoffs. Slipping a cigarette behind his ear, Tino shrugs, "Could happen."

Idly picking up a leaf and tearing it from its base, "She's a flake." Tino casts a glance in his buddy's direction; from Jordan Catalano, there aren't much worse accusations.

Having safely stored his freshly rolled cigarettes in his great-grandfather's engraved pocket case, Tino decisively snaps it shut, hops down from his perch, and lights the cigarette he'd had behind his ear. Exhaling, he picks up the conversation with a renewed buoyancy and rationality. "J, she could be doing it, for the shadiest, selfish reasons, but, I know you want to see her." Considering, "At the very least, tell her off."

Sounding tired, "Why? I don't wanna do that."

"She left you with him, didn't she?"

A bit better natured, "Doesn't speak well for her."

Chuckling as he exhales, "No."

* * *

Jordan takes a seat across Marie in a booth in the River Diner, a rustic Three Rivers institution he frequents semi-regularly. He recognized her at once. He wasn't sure he would. Still beautiful, she's different, than how he'd remembered her. Or, how he thought he remembered her. There's a quality about her, something unflappable; she keeps her poise, no matter what, and the source of this seems to be some kind of self-assurance. For one thing, she doesn't see herself in the wrong, and – in an entirely different, and more composed, way than Amber Vallone – considers herself a free spirit. She's prepared to talk to Jordan like an independent adult, not like a child left waiting for her.

She smiles sedately as he sits. "So, thanks for meeting with me."

"Okay."

Smiling over his terse response, "It's been a while." Jordan looks at her blankly. "Hm." Seeing that he has no immediate intention of keeping up a conversation, she continues on, "How's your sister?"

"What do you want?" He isn't hostile, but in no mood for bush beating, he'd rather get on with it.

Taking no offense, merely smiling at his bluntness, "Wow. Well, I thought, it was time to see you. See how you're growing up." She pauses, takes a sip of her green tea, "You look great. Very handsome."

Devoid of any emotion, "Great." She doesn't flinch.

Observing him, "You're not excited to see me."

Looking away, "Whatever."

"It's been a long time." She waits, but whether Jordan didn't realize this was an invitation for him to speak, or whether he's brushing it off, she isn't sure. "I thought you'd at least be curious."

Eyeing her, biting his lips before making any concession on this point, "Maybe. Something like, four, five years ago." He bites his thumbnail, registering her response.

But she circumvents his accusation and continues with pleasantries. "You doing okay?" He shrugs, as if to say, 'how does it look?' "School?"

Skeptical, "You came up here to talk about school?"

"Okay," graceful smile, "what should we talk about?" At that point, a waitress, in her late forties, who seems to know Jordan, drops off a cup of coffee for him, and pulls a bowl of sugar cubes from another table and leaves it for him.

She looks from Jordan to Marie, and back to Jordan, who'd smiled briefly when she'd brought the coffee, and who is now lounging back against the booth seat, right hand resting atop the rim of his coffee mug, staring at his mother. The waitress smiles, "I'll come back," and is gone.

Marie waits a minute before asking – just as pleasantly as everything before it, "How's your father?"

Not exactly looking up from adjusting the sugar to coffee ratio, "You know..."

"It's been a long time; you've known him much longer now."

Putting down his spoon, and leaning back with directness of purpose, looking her straight on, "He's the same as when you left."

"'Left'." She repeats it as though maybe humorous - questioning the semantics.

"Oh, you didn't?"

Breezily, "I had a life to live. I couldn't do it here."

"Fine."

In the silence he drinks his coffee.

Watching, she can't help herself, "All that sugar's not good for you." Taking another sip, he raises his eyebrows and forms a tight smile, simultaneously communicating: '_Okay, whatever_' and '_Go fuck yourself_.' She shrugs it off and absently repositions the pendant on her necklace. She continues sociably, as though a thought has just occurred to her, "Kiddo, you know. I'm surprised to still find you here."

This beats everything she's said so far. Jordan can't swallow the scoff as he responds, "Oh yeah?"

Seeing nothing odd in this line of conversation - "Kind of stifling, isn't it?"

"Is that what you call it?"

Airily, "Well, you're still here." From her point of view, if he's been unhappy there, leave. At nineteen she was married and pregnant; just two years younger, he can more than call his own shots.

Leaning forward, trying to get straight just what she has in mind; his words are wry, "So, uh, where should I be? According to you?"

"There's all kinds of places you could be."

"Perfect."

She makes an amused observation, "You're a little angry."

"You're wrong."

As complacent as she was at the start, "Okay. _ Jeff know I'm here?"

Not exactly answering, "You wanna see 'im?"

Smiling. "No. That's alright. So, how's your life?"

Not exactly sociable, but dropping the hostility, "What'ya wanna know?"

She gestures as she brainstorms; "What are your friends like?" He shrugs. "You do have some, right?"

"Right."

Pleasantly trying to elicit anything more from him, "And?

"They're good." While her self-composure is bothering him, he's temporarily decided to try an actual conversation with her, but never really verbose in the first place, his responses are still the model of pith.

Noting the shift in his demeanor, she ventures to the more personal, "Funny? Loyal? _ Girls? Is there one? Is there many?"

He looks at her, trying to see how she sees him. "One."

"I'd like to meet her." Jordan makes a face. Innocently, "What?"

Pointing out the obvious, "You're just meeting me."

Laughing, "You speak your mind."

Seeing the humor in this, "First time I've heard that."

Smiling warmly, "Could that be the absence of complex sentences streaming from your lips?"

Once again surly, "Dunno."

"Can't we be friends?"

"I think the point is you're 'spos'd to be a mother. But," channeling Tino's flare for irony, "_sure_, we can be 'friends'."

Not bothered by his reluctance to be sincere, amused by his tendency to be taciturn, she smiles at him. "You're smart; I like it." He takes this in, pursing his lips. To be called 'smart' – what she meant as an innocuous compliment brought up a lot of – it brought up a lot. He sits, looking at her. He decides he doesn't like her tan. He doesn't like her earthy New Age jewelry. He doesn't like her Santa Fe art scene clothing. He doesn't like her warm, infinitely patronizing smile, or her outright refusal to make amends, or to admit that amends needed to be made. He really didn't like the part when she'd blamed him for still being there. '_He was smart_'? She '_liked it'_? He didn't care what she liked.

His posture, his voice tone, everything changes. "This was stupid."

Without understanding the 'why', she sees that she's touched a never. Her apology is for his reaction, and not much more. "Sorry."

"Look, I don't know why I even agreed to do this."

Sounding like an analyst, "Well, that's worth exploring then."

"No. It isn't." Pushing his coffee mug away, "It's too late."

"Jordan. You're still with him." Her point being that if he's managed to stay living with his father all this time, making nice with her over coffee shouldn't be too tall an order.

Scratching his head, "Yeah, you know, the fact that you would say that, knowing what you know about him- _You _left me there." She begins to say something but he cuts her off. "Forget it; it doesn't matter." He rises, "I'm gonna get going." He drops a few bills on the table, and giving a quick glance in her direction, "I'll see you."

Sounding like a twentieth century governess, "Don't say what you don't mean."

"Alright - I don't think I want to know you." He exits the diner.

* * *

In the evening, Jordan sits with Angela on the Chase's from steps. He's quiet, but not moody, and she knows this is one of the rare occasions he's waiting for her to ask him. "How'd it go? … … Was it? Bad? … … What was she like?" He shakes his head.

Arms folded and resting across his knees, Jordan drops his chin to his arms, and so obstructed, mumbles, "Why did I go?"

Again she's on unsure footing, wanting nothing more than to be a comfort. "Because…" She fades out. She doesn't know what to say. Instead she studies him. "Was it terrible?"

He looks at her sharply, grumbling, "It was a waste of time. I don't know her. She doesn't know me." He straightens up, regains a little apathy – distance from the day. "She's not my mother." He looks at her to drive his point home. "I know _your_ mother more than I know my own. Tino's for sure. _ She didn't even care."

Taking this in. 'It's her loss."

Jordan scoffs caustically, "Yeah."

Trepidatious in these moments not to overly mother him - too sweet, make him too vulnerable, and he always turns it round on her - but feeling it too strongly not to say it, she risks it, in lowered tones, "It's them. It isn't you. Jordan."

His jaw jutted to the side, his eyes catch a sideways view of her, while he deliberates this. "Just forget it. _ It doesn't matter."

* * *

Jordan walks into Tino's room and flings the old snapshot and the others of his mother at him. Tino lowers his guitar, looks from the photo to Jordan. "Didn't work out?"

"Waste of time."

Casually strumming, keeping his attention on the guitar to give Jordan room to talk, if he wants. "What's she like?" Jordan's silence tells him to move onto the picture. "Am I tossing this or holding on to it?"

"I don't need it."

Doing what he does, which is lighten a mood, "Oh, just looking out for a buddy in need of prime mother nudie photos. Got it. Sweet." He pockets the picture and the others for safekeeping, should Jordan ever decide he wants them. Cocking an eyebrow, "Burritos?" Tino recognizes the silent-shutdown edition of his friend, and knows that if he takes charge and gives him time, Jordan Catalano will come around. He sets down his guitar, rises from his chair, and jokingly pushes Jordan back into the hallway and downstairs.

* * *

_Posted 9/3/12_


	20. Futureman

Jordan's slouching in the administration office at school; he's been called in for a counseling session with Mr. Wilson. Mrs. Lewis, the counseling secretary looks up from behind her desk, "Jordan," he lifts his head, "he's ready for you." Jordan rises and lops through the office towards the associate principal's office. Reaching the open door, he ducks his head inside; he hasn't come in with a particular attitude, but he's ready to scowl and go on defense if the occasion calls for it. "I got a slip."

"Yeah. Take a seat." Jordan looks at Wilson, at the chair, then sits.

A little suspicious, "What's this about?"

Laughing, Wilson retorts, "What'd you do?"

"Nothin'."

Still smiling, Wilson points out, "Jordan, you know, that answer's not any better than any other." Jordan doesn't get it; he continues good-naturedly, "It's a _school_ Mr. Catalano - you're _supposed_ to do something." Jordan rolls his eyes; Wilson lets it go - playing Jordan's emotionally disconnectedness, "Yeah, okay."

"So?"

Casually, "The slip?" He shrugs, "Follow up to your counseling session."

"I did that already."

"I know; that's why it's a 'follow-up'."

Jordan stares blankly at him, then raises his eyebrows; "What about it?"

Wilson shifts in his seat, getting down to business while maintaining his conversational rapport, "For one thing, the part of the form that asks you to fill in your objective career," he looks at Jordan for emphasis, "you didn't write anything."

"I wrote something."

"Oh. Yeah." He reaches behind him and pulls Jordan's paperwork from a file; he looks at him, then reads aloud, "'High school guidence counceler'. Spelled incorrectly."

Jordan offhandedly shrugs off the spelling remark, "It's _your_ school." In response to the unimpressed look Wilson shoots him, "What?"

Incredulous, he repeats Jordan's entry, "'Guidance counselor?'"

Jordan looks at him flatly. "Seems really fulfilling." Pausing as he looks for the word, "_Meaningful_."

Not buying it all, "That's great Jordan."

"So, we done?" Jordan rises, "Can I go?"

Also rising, Wilson speaks, harsher maybe than in any other conversation they've ever had, "No. Jordan. No, we're not done." Jordan sinks back into his chair and waits. Wilson studies him, thinking of what to say, how to approach this kid. He sighs, walks round his desk and sits atop it. He sounds a little tired, "Why're you doing this."

Exasperated, Jordan retorts, "Doing what?"

"How many times have we had this conversation?"

Breaking out his best defiant-Catalano, "So, send me back to my counselor. Or class."

Raising his eyebrow, "What does it look like when you're _in_ class? You doing _anything_?"

"So, send me to Thompson."

Back to playing it rhetorically cool, "Well, you know, I don't think I will, because your counselor, Mrs. Thompson, says you won't talk to her. And Ms. Kryzenowski says the same. So, here you are."

Jordan glowers at him, looks away, exhales, and looks back from beneath his furrowed brow, "… What do you want me to say?"

"You know where this is going; since we've had this conversation before, fill in the blanks for me. I say 'You're adrift.' You say," he mocks Jordan's brooding demeanor, 'So what?' I say, 'You're a smart kid. Let's make a plan.' You glower at me, roll your eyes, smirk, or do all three." His speech builds in momentum, "Me again, 'Catalano, you're not fooling anyone. You're doing better in your classes, you're here more regularly, you're going to tutoring, let's keep this going, let's build on this.' You stare blankly, waiting for me to give up. I say, 'You have potential. You need a plan. I don't want to see you give up on yourself. You can do better for yourself.' And you say: _?" Wilson waits.

Even if Jordan did want to say something, he's not sure what to say. Mr. Wilson sighs. He changes tack again, "What about when Tino goes to college?"

"Tino's not going to college."

"He _could_."

"You think that means anything to him?"

"It might."

"Shows how much you know 'im."

Speaking rhetorically, but also genuinely asking - trying to make the point that maybe Jordan himself may have aspirations or plans that he's not sharing, "Ever think he doesn't tell you everything? You tell him what your plans for the future are?"

"Tino's 10 to 1 more likely to be a," he searches... "a sky diving instructor - a garbage man - a Somali pirate, than go to college." Jordan smirks, "That break your heart?"

Moving past this, Wilson persists, "I'm not even talking college Jordan. But-"

Losing patience, Jordan turns hostile, "Why are you-" his focus disrupted, he cuts himself off. He begins again, "Look, you don't-" Losing steam, he starts one more time, "Why can't I just have a _job_? I don't _want_ a career."

"Kid, I'm not trying to dress you up in a suit and stuff you in a cubicle," it's not quite clear Jordan knows what a 'cubicle' is; "But 'yes', you _want_ a career. A job is something you can lose; you have a career, you have a plan. You can do something with your hands - cars, whatever, but you gotta be marketable Kid." Jordan might be listening… "Who knows, maybe own your own business."

"Yeah right."

Wilson regroups, "Look, let's just, look at what classes are available." He looks at Jordan, "You wanna work on cars?" Jordan shrugs. "Great response."

"I'm already in shop."

"_There's_ your words." Jordan's eyes roll. Wilson chuckles and then continues, "The district partners with a vocational training campus. I have their course catalogue. _As_ did Mrs. Thompson," he looks at him to make his point, Jordan shifts in his seat. Wilson notes that he may be having some kind of an impact and continues, "There could be more advanced classes. You interested in something else?" Without a response from Jordan Wilson tells him what he needs, "You want training; you want skills. You want to be part of a union." Flipping through the catalogue, he looks up, "Business class?"

Stating flatly, "I can't do algebra."

Not deterred, "Okay, let's start _somewhere_: Do me a favor, choose some classes." He holds the catalogue out to Jordan to take. Jordan looks him in the eye, then, grudgingly he takes it.

Rising and heading towards the door, Jordan says in irony, "I should've just punched somebody."

Smiling, Wilson shrugs, "Next time." Jordan nods sardonically as he rounds the corner and exits the office. As Jordan's exiting, Wilson calls out to him, "Jordan," he turns back, "they don't pay me to give up on you." Jordan looks at him, then heads off.

* * *

In the afternoon Jordan and Tino are hanging at Tino's place, changing the oil in the Cadillac Tino inherited from his grandfather.

Tino wipes his brow, smearing grease across his forehead, "Shane said you got called to the office; Foster or Wilson?"

Not looking up from sorting through the wrenches in his tool box Jordan answers, "Wilson."

Speaking with a tool in is mouth Tino tightens a bolt, "What'd you do?"

Jordan smirks, "That's what he said."

Tino waits; "So, what? He just haul you in on spec?"

Jordan mutters into his soda can as he lifts it to his lips, "Stupid spring counseling sessions." Tino gives a knowing nod - he gets why Catalano might get pulled in for that.

"What'd he say?"

"Nuthin'." Tino cocks his brow, this clearly isn't true. Jordan ruminates. Shooting a glance in Tino's direction, Jordan reluctantly asks, "You goin' to college?"

"Me?" Tino scoffs. Jordan nods. "Think you gotta go to class more than I do to graduate, let alone matriculate."

Not impressed by Tino underselling himself Jordan says flatly, "You're graduating."

"Just 'cuz Foster wants me out of his hair," Tino grins.

Jordan pushes the issue, "Wilson says you could; go to college."

Tino shrugs; this means nothing to him. "I'm not paying for school; I could go to a library if I really cared. And if they gave me a scholarship - and who in their right mind would - I'd take it for granted and never show up for class. You only value it if you pay, but" Tino grins, "I don't believe in paying."

Thinking this over, trying to figure it all, Jordan questions, "So, its 'cuzza money?"

Tino's offended, "_No_. Screw the money. What do I want to be in a classroom for all day for? What am I gonna do with a degree? Study what? History, poetry, art, philosophy? Become a friggin' professor?"

Since he's been prompted, Jordan begins genuinely thinking on this, "I could see that..." Tino laughs.

Continuing, upbeat, Tino affirms, "Another reason not to do it." Pausing to consider why Jordan's asking about any of this, his eyes narrow, "Why?" His lip lifts into a half-smirk, "_You_ going?" His brows raise, "That what Wilson's got in his head."

"No." But Jordan scratches the back of his head, still thinking, "So, what are you going to do?"

Stretching his legs out before him and crossing them at the ankle, Tino leans back against his arms, tilting his head backwards. Looking up into the clouds, Tino says in all seriousness, "I was thinking of becoming a white Gypsy. Reclaim my Nomadic Irish routes."

Incredulous, Jordan queries, "You write that on the form?"

Snapping his head back in his friend's direction, Tino scoffs, "You kidding? I wrote EMT." He rises and pats Jordan on the shoulder as he crosses behind him, "Gotta play the game Boy-o."

"Your mom gonna let you? Not go to school?"

He scoffs, "'_Let_.' _ Mommy wears a _skirt_ for a living. Literally. What kinda case is she going to make?" Noting that Jordan seems unconvinced he says, "You wanna ask her?" Before Jordan responds, Tino's bellowing towards the house. "Mamacita!" Tino flashes a grin at Jordan, taking pleasure in being obnoxious.

Momentarily Tino's mother emerges from the side door, "You beckoned, oh dearest child of mine?" she asks dryly, unamused with being hollered at. To Jordan, she smiles and says, "Hi Sweetie."

Tino jerks his thumb in Jordan's direction; "JZA here's lookin' for confirmation that you're not under any delusions I'm matriculating."

"Meaning, do I think you should go to college?" The boys nod. And so does she, "I do."

Utterly betrayed, Tino plays up the shock, "Whaa?"

She continues, explaining herself, "I'm not going to force you to go; I understand what _that_ would get me."

"'Not very far,'" Tino interjects.

She flashes a face at him, then continues, "Do I think you would excel in school? 'Yes.' I _know_ it." Tino feigns being touched. "_But,_" she adds, "I know it isn't worth anything if you don't want it." Tino shoots an '_I told you so_' look at Jordan. She tilts her head, "How come?"

Grinning wryly, Tino jerks his head in Jordan's direction, "Catalano's got his eye on a mortarboard." Both Tino and his mother look in Jordan's direction; the attention, not to mention he hasn't a clue what a mortarboard is, leaves Jordan a little uncomfortable. To this, Tino's head falls back as he laughs.

* * *

After Tino's, after work, after band practice, Jordan walks through his front door. His father, glass in hand, is lying on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV. The room is dim and Jordan purposefully walks past him towards the kitchen. From behind him, Jordan hears his father call out, "That Wilson guy called again." Jordan, already in the kitchen, pulls a carton of milk from the refrigerator and does not respond. His father persists dully, "What's he after?" Jordan inspects the date, then seeing that smells the contents; he deliberates for half a second, then takes a gulp. His father, who had been only fractionally interested from the beginning, doesn't like having been ignored, and now he calls out louder, and a bit sharper, "Jordan." Jordan rolls his head, shifts his lower jaw to the side, then resigns himself to having to return to the living room. Once there he waits, slouching. His father shifts a little to face him, arms crossed across his chest, "You do something?"

"Like?"

"Do I want to know?"

Jordan sounds exhausted as he answers; he hadn't slept much the night before - that had been Shane's fault - then he'd done school and work and played the same stupid Stooges song for what had seemed like more than an hour straight; _did this really have to be happening? Why did this stupid session keep coming up?_

It didn't bother Jordan that his father's first guess was that he was in trouble; maybe it should have. But it wasn't like Jordan didn't get in trouble. And not only because of Tino and Shane. In fact, there may have been a small part of Jordan that liked that his old man knew he could be reckless, dangerous even. These days, Jordan could do more than hold his own in a fight, when called upon. And if the son-of-a-bitch knew it, so much the better. But to have to stand there, and be interrogated, now, for the third time, by someone who really could give a damn, was really the last thing he wanted to deal with. "It's a counseling thing." Jeff's brows raise, he doesn't like the sound of that. "It's graduation stuff. For after." Jordan's done standing at attention and now kind of moves about the room, busying his hands, only occasionally casting his gaze in his father's direction.

Jeff rises now, eyeing his boy as he crosses the room to freshen his drink, "He got the right number? 'After'?" Jordan get's, but is not amused that he's implying that if the topic is post-graduate plans, it must've been the wrong phone number Mr. Wilson'd called. Taking a drink Jeff says, "Last thing I heard there're no guarantees that was ever gonna happen."

Jordan's gone stoic, "Well. Either way." Graduate or not, he wasn't going to be in high school forever. He disinterestedly pours himself two fingers worth of what his father's drinking. Jeff watches him do it. Jordan isn't allowed to drink his father's liquor. Not unless he's in an unusually chummy mood. A beer or two he could always get away with, but now that he was older and could pretty much pass - the broad shoulders helped, Tino didn't have that - it was mostly easier just to buy his own. He did this now because, well, really just because. He was tired, he was being made to suffer a father-knows-shit moment, and he enjoyed, sometimes, testing his boundaries, knowing full well that what he could get away with one day he might not the next. Even the next hour. Unpredictability: that was the name of this beast. Volatile. Caustic. Like what Katimsky'd said that time, a cat on a hot tin roof. Eyeing his father, Jordan takes a drink. "'e says I need a plan."

Watching his son handling his liquor, Jeff decides to placate him, "So, what's the plan?" Now amused, Jordan's father eggs him on, "Hit me." Jordan scratches the back of his head, takes another drink, and shrugs. No longer laughing, but still affable, if tinged with underwhelming confidence in his child, Jeff points out, "No one says you have to graduate.

Partly obstinate, and partly amiable and conversational, Jordan retorts, "I'm pretty sure somebody did."

"'Cuz you're so law-abiding, and just love doing what people tell you to," remarks his father, not missing the irony. Jordan doesn't respond but his father is now finding a little pleasure in this conversation, "So, com'on, what's 'the plan'?"

Jordan takes his time taking a sip, eyeing his dad over the rim of his glass, casually challenging him, "_You_ got any ideas?"

Without aggression, Jeff says, "Look, I don't care what you do." Then he adds, "You got 'till eighteen to figure it out."

Jordan pushes the issue, testing his old man, "Army?"

His father stops, and looks right at him, "I didn't say that." But after a moment's consideration, he can't help but point out, "Course, there's not a war on." Jordan discretely rolls his eyes - things never measure up to his father: Jordan's never man enough, never tough enough, never quite impressive enough. Taking another swig before turning his back on Jordan and heading back to the sofa, Jeff adds, "Love to see that hair cut though." Again, Jordan rolls his eyes, this time with a little more levity; Jordan never quite has his father pegged - what he'll say, what he cares about, what he'll do… and all he can do about it is let it roll off his back. His dad's tired of the conversation; as he settles back into the sofa he makes one last off-handed remark before tuning Jordan out, "Join a union, you'll be okay."

* * *

_Posted 9/23/12_


	21. Tino schools in the art of war and music

Friday night Jordan and Angela leave Pike street after checking out a band he'd wanted to see. As they exit the building Jordan slings his arm across her shoulders and draws her near. She's saying something to make him laugh and he absently kisses the side of her head as he does.

Taking no notice of them, Angela and Jordan pass a couple of guys heading toward the entrance as he leads her through the lot towards his car. Upon spotting Jordan one guy stops and turns back. Seeing him stop, his friends do as well.

"Hey, Catalano!" he shouts aggressively. Caught off guard Jordan turns his head to see who's calling him. The guy, Huntsfield, who Jordan recognizes by last name only, jerks his head at Jordan when he sees he's got his attention; "Hey; your boy Tino slashed my tires." Jordan's face tightens; he doesn't want to deal with this.

Jordan removes his arm from Angela's shoulder and turns fully to face this guy. He responds, but in calculated coolness; Jordan has years of home training in non-escalation. "Yeah?" Jordan Catalano is absolutely capable of losing his cool and his temper along with it, but he is aware that if it can be managed, dull, world-wearied apathy provokes just as effectively, and a little self-preservation's never a bad call.

"Great response," sneers one of the entourage.

Jordan keeps his focus on Hunstfeild, turning it back on him. "So, how come? What'd you do?"

Chiming in, another of the friends scoffs, "Don't act like he's not crazy." His meaning being that Tino Mourlot is not an individual big on motive, when whim will do just fine.

Jordan may know this to be true, but he'd never cede to it. "Not so much that he'd do it fer nuthin'," he counters.

Angela looks from Jordan to the guys. She doesn't know how to gauge this scene. While the guy and his friends seem pretty angry, Jordan's gone on defense with the same impenetrable dispassion she's seen at school a hundred times. But it's not a teacher he's up against now, and this is not the same as when he and his friends get pissed at each other, which itself can sometimes be a challenge to read. And these are guys she's never seen before. _Is Jordan under-reacting?_

"Well, you know _that's_ a lie." Taking a step closer Hunstfeild hurls his flask at Jordan. It misses him, but not by much, and falls, clattering at his feet.

Jordan's body goes rigid and his voice deepens and sharpens, "_Hey_! Back off."

Angela at this point is officially alarmed, but all she can manage is a discreet, "Jordan." He glances in her direction but immediately returns his attention to the action at hand.

"Com'on!"

"_What's your problem_?" Jordan demands.

The answer is self-evident: "Tino."

In answer, Jordan turns his head left and right, "Do you _see_ Tino?"

"Yeah, well, that kid's never around." Jordan's made this guy's point for him: If Tino's at fault but can't be found, his friend will do instead.

"That's your problem." In Jordan's circle, it's pretty much verboten to shirk a fight off onto a friend, even if it was that friend's fight to begin with, but Jordan doesn't relish fighting in front of Angela, not to mention being out numbered.

"Well, now it's yours," and he moves forward. Smoothly, Jordan reaches his arm out in front of Angela and subtly pushes her back, shifting to stand in front of her. This has done nothing to reassure her.

Determined to get out of there, Jordan's meaning is Angela when he says staunchly, "Look, this isn't a good time." His blue eyes are cold and narrowed, and both his tone and demeanor are unflinching.

A '_Sorry_', in an affected dullard's voice is the irreverent reply. "Put your girl in the car and—"

"Yeah. Right." Jordan's had enough. "We're leaving." He figures if they were really going to _jump_ him, they'd 've done it by now.

The guy is incredulous, "You telling us to find Tino? Good having back," he ridicules.

Jordan disregards this. His walking away's not a capitulation, thus his antagonistic swagger never wanes: "You can find _me_ once I take her home. We're outta here." He takes hold Angela's wrist, and in a husky lowered voice directs, "Com'on." He pulls her to his car, opens his door and gets her in. Once she is, he reaches in and pulls out a soda can that'd been rolling around in the back and chucks it at them. It explodes at their feet. Jordan climbs in the red Plymouth and peels out.

* * *

As they drive, Angela breathes, and exhales. She looks at him. "Jordan."

He takes his time, but does turn to face her. "You're okay," is all he says. He says it matter-of-factly, like it's something she already knows. _Better to tell her than ask her._

He watches her think — watches as she mulls over her thoughts, processing them and deciding what to voice and what to let go. Eventually Angela shakes her head. "Your life is bizarre."

He laughs. "Is it?"

"Well, _yeah_. Pretty sure nothing like that's happened to me." Although it kind of _did _just happen to her, he sees her point. Nobody was calling her out for something her friends had done. The thought of it though triggers another laugh from him. "'Shocking.'" Angela's deadpan delivery makes him smile; Jordan loves her moments of self-awareness.

Quietly she peers out the window, "Should we get out of the neighborhood?" There's still residual worry in her voice.

"What?" he says amiably. "You looking over your shoulder?"

"You know what I _was_ looking for—" He cocks an eyebrow in response. "A broken bottleneck," she only halfway jokes.

Her reasons he can't begin to fathom. "Why?"

Jordan leans back and stretches as they're stopped at a traffic light. She answers him dryly, like it should be obvious, though clearly she means to be humorous, "Because, that's what one uses in a back alley brawl."

"Oh. Right." Jordan laughs and lunges in for a kiss that catches her off guard. When he pulls back he's still laughing at her. "Where'd you get that?" The light changes and he redirects his attention to the road.

"Is that your way of saying I've read _The Outsiders_ too many times?"

"I saw that movie," he recalls. "A lot of gymnastics." Angela thinks this is a crazy assessment of that story. _Three deaths versus one back flip._

"_Or,_" she can't refrain from wryly amending, "Patrick Swayze and Rob Lowe." Jordan flashes her a look of disapproval. But Angela's not feeling overwhelmingly playful; she's still very much thinking of what just happened. Her voice alters and she settles up against the passenger door; "But really, what _was_ that?"

Jordan scratches his head as he deliberates his answer, "Uh, Tino sometimes suffers from an excess of mayhem. Then there's fallout."

"So," she purposefully oversimplifies, "you're a fighter." Partially mocking him she says, "You get in fights." Jordan cracks a smirk but says nothing, and Angela's earnest once more, "What would have happened?"

"When?"

She looks out the window to indicate 'back at Pike Street,' "Just now."

Jordan's not going to entertain her penchant for over thinking: "What happened _did_ just happen."

"But if you couldn't just walk away?" she prompts.

Though she's still worrying about it he's already detached and pragmatic, and his answer reflects it, "Then my fist would hurt. And maybe my jaw." She looks at him with unease; Jordan chuckles. "Relax."

Angela inspects him incredulously, "'Relaxed' isn't how I would've described you back there."

"We walked away didn't we?" She ignores how bored he's starting to sound.

"Are you going to tell Tino?" He's amazed — well, considering it's her, actually not at all — that she can still find things to worry over.

"Tell 'im what? That nothing happened?" She makes a face at his unflappable nonchalance.

"Oh, I don't know," Angela says, resorting to irony, "maybe that there are crazy guys out there looking to hurt him?" Jordan only laughs. Angela looks at him. She had seen how tense he was back there. Hadn't he pushed her back? Hadn't he raised his voice, which he so rarely does? And yet he seems to have laughed more in this conversation than in most; now it was nothing serious.

The drive away from Pike Street had begun with Angela impressed by how strangely volatile his life was — that you could be laughing, minding your own business one minute, and be under the threat of attack from three strangers the next. That a friend of yours would find entertainment in vandalism, and that you're just as likely to pay for it as he is. Now what's striking her is what she's come to again and again with Jordan Catalano. This being that none of it seems to faze him. The very fact that he could be earnestly on edge and hostile back in that parking lot, and just as quickly shake it off — it's crazy to her. And nearly every time she's a witness to it it makes her reexamine herself. _Is she the abnormal one? Too little experienced and too prone to anxiety? Is it him? And is it him because that's his nature, or because his life demands it of him? Is it a conscious choice — a Zen-like mindset of 'take it as it comes_'_? _She realizes the very fact that she's had these thoughts over and over again, while like as not he has never thought these things speaks volumes. And there again is another question: _Assuming he does not, does Jordan not think these thoughts because he doesn't, as in they just don't occur to him, or, does he actively choose not to entertain them? Is it that Jordan Catalano is uninquisitive and complacent, or is he, against all expectations, incredibly enlightened _—_ accepting things as they are and never questioning, just simply moving forward through them and in spite of them? _Once more begging the question:_ Is this his nature, or is this his lack of nurture? No matter what would Jordan be imperturbable and stoic, or did the very fact that so much of his formative years was spent in circumstances he could not control or alter embed it in him, now learned, self-preserving behavior he applies to all of life?_ She doesn't think she'll ever know the answers. She doesn't know if he does. But in addition to all the other things she thinks and feels about him, she finds this unknowable dichotomy of personality fascinating, and as much as their polar approaches to communication and life in general often frustrate her, it also draws her in.

She hadn't known it was there — before, when she watched him from across classrooms and down hallways, but she suspects that years from now she will still be given to contemplating it. She's come to know him better than she ever could have guessed she would, and doing so has allowed her to see how artificial and confining her ingénue-constructed fantasies of him had been. Because Jordan Catalano hadn't always been real to her.

At some point, due in a small part to Tino's pushing, she had come to realize she'd unfairly cast him in a stock role of desire and angst. But even back months earlier when she'd thought she was coming to understand him in a way she didn't even know existed, that was still her imbuing him with crisis and melancholy, and ungenerously denying so many other things about him. The real discovery for her was that Jordan wasn't one thing at all — light or dark. Jordan doesn't take things seriously. He wants to be okay. He likes to be on his own but he thinks people are interesting. His home life messed him up. But not on the surface. And not anywhere he'll let you at. He's loyal. And he likes to tease. And all signs pointing otherwise, he's curious. And is sometimes so like a little boy, despite his best efforts. And fallible as hell. And gentle. And none of this would she have known.

Jordan interrupts her reverie. "You've never bought tires, 'cuz being pissed when they're slashed isn't crazy. And, you've never seen Tino rage." He looks at her, "You don't have to worry about him."

"I can't picture Tino losing his temper." She is thoughtful when she says this.

"Ha!"

"What's that mean?"

"Never mind. Just, uh, get out of the way when he gets that look."

"What look?"

"You'll know."

"I like that you said 'when'."

"Tino? No 'if's' about it." She smiles a tight-lipped smile; he drives.

After some time she looks at him, "Have you?" Angela tucks her hair and clarifies, asking with reserved judgment, "Slashed tires? Or, the equivalent." Jordan shifts gears and never takes his eyes off the road, "Don't ask what 'cha don't want to know."

* * *

After dinner Saturday night, Jordan and Tino swing by the Chase's to pick up Angela. Tino honks and Angela emerges, pulling on her sweater as she walks down the path to the curb. "Hey."

Tino leans forward on the steering wheel to see her, "Yo girl, what's cookin'?" Jordan gets out in order to let Angela in. Climbing in she greets Tino with a knuckle snap when he holds out his hand for her to do so. "Heard you had an almost crazy night last night." Angela scoffs and her eyes roll, both from the memory and from what she can imagine of how Jordan relayed it. Tino smiles knowingly and turns back and starts the ignition, "Go for the eyes Chase, always go for the eyes."

When the car starts the radios' blaring and Tino instantly makes a face, groaning in disgust, "Stone Temple Pilots." Tino immediately switches the stereo from the radio to the tape deck. Suddenly Cher's cover of "Walking in Memphis" is playing. Jordan sighs, makes a face, and closes his eyes; clearly he's not surprised by the selection, but he's none the more accepting of it. Angela doesn't know exactly what to make of it. Jordan's reaction wasn't missed on Tino. Keeping his eyes on the road, Tino tilts his head in Angela's direction, "Catalano's so judgmental." He glances at her, "You find that to be true?" Angela shakes her head slightly — she never knows exactly what's the right answer with him, or when he's speaking in earnest. She often has the feeling of being a step and half behind Tino, but admittedly, she likes the journey nonetheless.

Tino takes it for granted that she obviously should have agreed with him — no surprise really, as that's his take on everything — and speaks definitively for her, "He is." He continues, talking about Jordan as though he were not there, and speaking with the detached authority of an expert: "He doesn't care a shit about most things, but he's judgy as hell." Tino turns and looks at her for emphasis, "Know it."

Arms crossed and eyes still closed, Jordan mutters, "What's with the symposium?" He opens one eye to glance at Angela to check he's used the right word and she lifts her brow in subtle confirmation that he had.

"Big words," Tino chuckles.

As apparently he's joined this conversation, Jordan reopens his eyes and straightens up a little in his seat. "You love telling her what to think about me; not to listen to me, to take your word on everything." It's an observation not an accusation.

"Well, _yeah_. My word is gold." Tino grins and runs a red light for the hell of it. "'Sides," he poses, "how else will she know?"

"It's great that I can't think for myself."

"He tries to keep that from happening." Jordan slouches down again.

"Big Brother, that's me. Speaking of Double Think," he's talking indirectly to Jordan now, "how is someone that listens to corporate faux-indie garage band poser grunge like Archers of Loaf, gonna turn their nose up at Cher? Really. And F that icon shit, the lady can sing." Now Tinos's getting mildly worked up about it, "Catalano," he challenges, "name me one female recording artist you'd listen to. One." Tino glances at Angela as he waits for his answer. "And 'hot video' 's not going to cut it."

Jordan says nothing. He frequently interacts with the world on a rhetorical level — he does not want to supply answers, so he operates under the constructed assumption that the askers do not really want answers. When he gets that there are two people in the car with him who really are waiting for a response, he speaks up. "What? Does that make me a bad guy?"

Without diverting his attention from the road, Tino reaches around Angela to smack the back of Jordan's head. "It makes you limited. Which, yeah, is 'bad'." Once again giving up on Jordan, Tino looks to Angela, "Whudda you listen to?" But, bored with the predictability of his peers' tastes in music, he cuts off any real response she might have offered; "Other than, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Pearl Jam."

"I like Eddie Veder."

Not big on conceding the point, Tino begrudges her an: "He's okay." Stopped at an intersection he takes the chance to scrutinize Angela and make some predilection predictions. "What? Tracy Chapman? Tori Amos? General Lilith Fair mania?"

Angela sees that with Tino, taste in music is not a case of personal preference — there are wrong answers. She comes up with a name but her delivery lacks confidence. "I like Billy Holiday."

Tino nods approvingly, "There you go. That's good." He can get on board with that.

Thus bolstered she continues. "I've heard of Tracy Chapman, but, I don't know much else other than that car song."

Tino grins wryly, "_Everybody's_ writing _car songs_." Jordan rolls his eyes and shifts uncomfortably. The significance of this remark is lost on Angela and Tino stifles a larger reaction. Then directs his attention back to Angela, "Okay, what else?"

Having had enough, Jordan speaks up, "Let it go." By this time he's long since reached out and turned down the volume.

But Tino never lets thing go until he chooses. "Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't know asking a person about their tastes in music was a problem for you." He chuckles; "Relax boy." Tino leans in to Angela, speaking as if Jordan cannot hear them, "He doesn't like for me to talk to you."

Mildly irritated Jordan needlessly sets the record straight, "That's not true." He turns on Tino, "You talk everybody into the ground." Tino takes this in, seems to consider it, but after a beat he forges on with Angela Chase's musical education.

"You should check out Wanda Jackson. Or Lucinda Williams." Then he points at her as inspiration strikes, "I'm making you a Bikini Kill tape." He thinks about it a little longer and adds, "A little Fastbacks too."

"Who are you?" Jordan questions dully. "The feminist mouthpiece alla'a sudden?"

Tino likes that and nods, "Yeah, sounds good." In a delayed reaction, Tino shakes his head and affectionately laughs at Jordan, "'Feminist mouthpiece'. Listen to the wunderkind."

"Enough." Tino takes a sidewise glance at him, wordlessly ejects the tape, shoots him a look, then reaches into his glove compartment and digs around until he pulls out a homemade cassette, and pushes it into the player. The Clash begins to play over the stereo.

"Anybody says one thing 'gainst Joe Strummer you're gettin' thrown outta the car." They drive in silence, listening to "Straight to Hell." Eventually Tino smirks, "So, tell me again, how pissed was Huntsfield last night?"

Jordan scoffs and shakes his head, "Wouldn't park near him anytime soon."

"Or _walk_ near him," Angela remarks, a little begrudgingly; they both look at her. Then Tino laughs and reaches over and patronizingly rubs the top of her head. Once he removes his hand to parallel park she combs her fingers through her hair, smooths it and retucks it. "Why did you do it? The tires?"

Emitting a burst of laughter as he pulls his keys from the ignition, Tino shakes his head, "I think that's a little too _not_ PG-13 for you." Jordan turns to conceal a smirk.

Angela bites her lips together and her eyebrows raise as high as they are able, "Wow. I can't tell you how much I enjoy this double-standard you two box me into."

"Talk to him on that one," Tino says as he reaches into the back for his jacket. "if anyone's 'doubling' you it's your bf. I prefer you, _An_-gela, to have one standard. You're strictly 'General audience: family friendly' in my book."

"And that's why you've driven me to an underage kegger?"

They climb out of Tino's Cadillac, shut the doors, and walk up the dark suburban street to their destination. Tino lights a cigarette, "There's something fascinating about a lamb in a wolves den, Chase."

Angela rolls her eyes, "_Oh, God_."

Exhaling, Tino passes the cigarette to Jordan and wraps his arm around Angela, squeezing her shoulder, "Don't fret Red Riding Hood," he tugs a lock of her hair, "no wolves out tonight. Though," he takes the cigarette back and inhales, "can't say I'm not in the mood for a fight."

They've made it to the party and Tino releases Angela to shake hands with a buddy. It is warm inside the house, and having come in from the crisp night air, still chilled, into the heated room alive with music and scented with clove cigarettes, there is a tingling sensation of being alive. Jordan hands Tino a beer then pulls Angela to him and kisses her. When she's released, she snugs against him, shaking her head when he offers her his cup. Tino wags his brows at her — she's just made his point for him.

As they hang out, drinking the initial beers of the night and surveying the scene, Angela thinks back to their conversation in the car and the violence these boys create for fun, shrug of, then joke about. _Did a big part of her anxiety the night before stem from her being the only sane person in this trio, or, was it possibly having no real sense of what an actual fight entails?_ Angela restarts the conversation. "Okay, so," she glances up at both of them, "what do you do in a fight?" The boys look at her, and look at each other.

Tino takes it upon himself to respond. "What would _you_ do, or what would _we_ do?" Jordan laughs and struggles to swallow his mouthful of beer. "'Cuz," Tino continues, "_you_ should run." Jordan laughs louder. Angela waits for an actual answer. "Okay, really? Go for the soft spots."

"Throat. Gut," itemizes Jordan.

"You're a girl, you can figure out where else."

"Gravel in the eyes," Jordan adds. Tino nods confirmation.

Transitioning into schools of thought, Tino gestures with his cup, "Face can be cathartic, but it's rarely worth fracturing your hand. And no kidding about the exit strategy."

"Scratching's okay," Jordan guesses. "For a girl."

Continuing with deliberate nonchalance, Tino sees where Jordan was taking this (or should have been), "Oh sure, and tearing of clothing. Ya know, feel free to just rip that top right off, should you find yourself in the circumstance." He conspiratorially winks at Angela and she smiles in spite of herself and shakes her head.

"Hopeless. Both of you."

Tino grins facetiously, "Never heard that one." Then Tino spots a particular girl across the room, salutes his farewell to Angela and Jordan, and makes his approach. Without a word Tino takes her hand and walks her behind him down a hall.

Left alone, Jordan wraps his arms around Angela's waist and kisses her neck. "Is that what you call "going for the throat?" Jordan would laugh but she turns to face him and catches him in a kiss, which he surrenders to willingly, tightening his hold on her.

* * *

_Posted 1/10/13_


	22. Another Saturday Night

On a Thursday night, Graham calls out from the kitchen to Angela that Jordan is on the phone for her. Angela rises from the den where she'd been working on homework and crosses to the phone in the downstairs hallway. "Jordan?"

"Hey."

"Hey," she says, twisting the long phone cord around her index finger as she does. "What's going on?"

"You got Brain's number?"

Legitimately confused as to what he's just said, her brow furrows and she asks, "Excuse me?"

"His phone number."

"Whose?"

"That kid Brain." By now Jordan's well past the unfamiliarity that would merit such a descriptor as 'that kid'; in truth they'd become something closer to friendly than strangers, but Jordan doesn't mind keeping some semblance of distance between them. It's not like they're _friend_ friends.**  
**

Angela's catching up, "You mean Brian Krakow?"

"Yeah. You're friends, right?"

"… Uh, I guess… I mean, 'yeah,' I have his phone number." Her eyes narrow in curiosity, "So, you're calling Brian?" '_Even after months, Jordan Catalano barely calls me. What did he have to say to Brian Krakow?_' "Is this about tutoring?" she tries.

"No. So; you got it?"

Apparently he's not giving her more than that. "Uh, yeah," she says. "Hold on?"

* * *

Angela finds Jordan in the hallways the next day and falls in step with him. Stopping with him at his locker she asks, "So, did you call Brian Krakow?"

"Huh?"

"Brian Krakow. You called me for his number."

"Oh. Right. No. It didn't happen."

Angela tries to clarify this, "The phone call, or something else?"

After a moment's consideration Jordan decides that '_both_' works and he opts for the pithiest and most convenient answer: "Both. Or, 'neither'." Angela makes big eyes to acknowledge his diction.

"So, what didn't happen?"

"Huh?" Jordan asks again, distracted by the eye drops he's dispensing.

Angela looks at him, "Are you trying to be this obtuse?"

The word 'obtuse' makes him smile, and grinning he teasingly pushes her, "You're 'obtuse'." Then Jordan drops his shoulder, "What does that mean?"

"It means: what's the big mystery about Brian Krakow?"

"There's no mystery."

In hyperbolic frustration she grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, "Grrrr."

He raises his eyebrows, surprised and amused. He laughs at her, "You going crazy?"

Defeated, Angela resigns herself, "I guess so." He smirks; she shakes her head, '_Why is he so like he is?_'

Moving on, with the conversation and from his locker, Jordan asks, "We hanging out tonight?"

Nodding, she pulls at her skirt which distracts his attention from her to her legs, "Yeah."

"I get off at seven," he tells her. And because he can't help himself he spanks her lightly, eliciting a bashful smile from Angela, which makes it all the more satisfying now that he's done it.

"Want me to save you some dinner?" she asks, like she has many times before.

"Am I going to say 'no'?"

She smiles to herself, then tucks her hair and moves on. "What're you doing Saturday?"

"I'm taking Brian to a party." He's said it like it's the most natural thing to say. So casual he's barely listening to himself say it.

Angela's assuming she's misunderstood, "'Brain' Brian?"

"Yeah." Jordan nods hello to a buddy who passes by as they head down the hall.

Angela is not distracted, "Whose party?"

Jordan shrugs, "Whosever's having one."

"Really?"

He shrugs again. "He needs to get out."

To this Angela concedes the point, "I guess. Does it fall upon you?"

Jordan swings her hand in his, "He could be cool. If he gave himself a chance."

Amused, she smiles at him trying to figure him out, "So, Brian's your new project?"

He only sighs and looks down at her, "Angela. Everything's always a _thing_."

Once again Jordan's appraisal of her leaves Angela self-conscious and second guessing herself; "Okay," is all she's left with to say. She looks at him, newly curious, "Is Brian _going_?"

He looks at her, "Why wouldn't he?"

"Oh, I don't know," she answers rhetorically, "he's _Brian Krakow_." She looks at him but this fact does not mean to him what it means to her. "So, what?" she studies his face, "Are you guys friends now?"

Jordan cocks an eyebrow at her, "That not allowed?"

Angela makes a face at the suggestion then laughs it off. "Have a good time."

A guy passing by calls out to Jordan and Jordan gives him a head nod and a smile.

They stand there. Angela does a hair tuck, he glances at her. Then nudges her, smirking, "You love putting people in boxes."

Her brows furrow, "I don't think that's true."

"Oh. Ok." He grins wryly.

"You really think that's true?"

"Forget it." He lightly pushes her into the classroom he's walked her to but before she turns to head in he reaches out and pulls her back by her backpack. When she turns round to face him he moves in quickly for a kiss then immediately releases her once more. She rolls her eyes and smiles in spite of herself, then heads into her class as the final bell rings making him officially late to his.

* * *

Jordan leads Brian through a house party. The house is big but dated. There are people everywhere, drinking and smoking. Music is blaring but no one is dancing. The house isn't trashed, but there's been some chaos.

Following Jordan Brian looks around, "So uh, who's house is this?"

Jordan has to think about this, "Uh…"

Incredulous, Brian turns slightly panicked, "You don't know?"

"I know. Relax. It's uh… Her name's…" he points his finger at Brian as he recalls it, "Brigitte."

Brian scoffs, "Great. What, is she French?" Jordan looks sideways at him for a second. '_French?_'

They walk a little further into the party, Brian's looking around at the chaos and the mess, then asks in disbelief, "This is a girl's party?"

Jordan's not fazed at all, "Yeah. What?" Under Jordan's stoic gaze Brian shakes his head and lets it go. Jordan gives him a look, then heads to the keg where he tests it, pumps it just a bit and then fills a cup. Handing it off to Brian he then fills one for himself, "You done this before?" he asks as he fills the second cup.

Offended, Brian scoffs, "What, drink a beer? Yeah." He'd had sips from his father's. Half a one with his brother-in-law, two at yearbook camp, and then there was that night with Rayanne after opening night of _Our Town_.

That's not what Jordan'd meant.

"Used a keg."

"Oh. _ No."

Jordan looks at him a second, taking him in, then speaks, "'Kay, don't pump too much. And make sure you hold the tab down all the way. Or you get foam." He looks at him for confirmation, "Got it?"

Brian nods. "Yeah." He's partly embarrassed to have to sit through this, but partly grateful there's someone there to walk him through it. And Jordan doesn't seem too interested in making him feel a fool, he's just talking. Brian takes a drink, then looks around the room. Something about this makes Jordan silently proud. "So, do you, uh, do even know this girl?"

"What girl?" Jordan says over his beer.

Brian half laughs, _Geez_, "Who's house this is?"

"Oh. Yeah. I know her." Jordan moves further into the house.

Brian follows after, his beer cup still all but full. "Well, uh, how well do you know her? 'Cuz, a minute ago, you didn't even know her name."

"Brain, you know you don't have to know the girl to be in the house." He turns directly to him, "Like, as, a rule." Jordan moves on, casually passing through the party, "Though, it's better if you know someone who does."

"So, uh," Brian looks around, taking in his surroundings once more, "what all happens at these things?"

"Well," Jordan drinks and sounds very worldly and detached in his response, "usually a fight. Or five. Then there's the orgy." He shrugs for effect, "And then someone gets rushed to the hospital." He glances at Brian to register his reaction. By the looks of it, Brian is both mildly alarmed yet a little impressed. Jordan smirks, "It's a party man; nothin' happens."

"Well," he says dryly, "I guess it's really vital that I didn't stay home then."

"It really was," confirms Jordan as he pats Brian on the back.

* * *

Jordan and Brian are hanging by the glass doors leading out to the backyard, observing the scene. "So," Jordan asks, "you gonna go home with someone?"

"'Home'?" Brian asks in tempered disbelief.

"Well, it doesn't have to be _home_ home." Jordan doesn't get that it wasn't really the 'home' part throwing him off.

"I think that's pretty unlikely."

Jordan isn't impressed with his self-deprecation. His eyes narrow, "How come you're like this?"

"Like what?"

Jordan studies him, "Like, all… hesitant. _ It's not that hard."

"What isn't? Girls?"

Jordan laughs, "_Everything_." He drinks, "_Life_."

"Sure," is Brian's sardonic response; "maybe for you."

Jordan shakes his head, "You and Angela; spend you're whole lives over thinking things."

"And I guess you're just entirely well-adjusted and never second-guess anything." Jordan shoots him a look as if to say '_cool it'_, which leaves Brian feeling slightly self-conscious.

"See, that's exactly what I mean. What'dyou care what I think?" Jordan downs the beer in his hand, crushes the cup and drops it at his feet. "Okay, look, I really think it's time you meet a girl."

"I know girls."

"Okay," Jordan concedes. "_Different_ girls. It's been what? Fifteen—"

"Sixteen—" Brian helps him out.

"Sixteen years; it's time."

"For what?" Brian's a little wary, both of what Jordan may have in mind, and of what Jordan thinks of him.

"For _something_," is all Jordan says.

"You're, forgetting…"

"Oh, right." Jordan heard the vaguest outline of what happened between him and Rayanne after that play thing. "Still, when was that?"

"March? Early March."

"Okay then." Jordan's point's made for him. He grins at Brian.

Brian turns to him, sensing that Jordan's watching him, waiting for something. "What?"

Jordan gestures, "Pick someone."

"Yeah right," Brian dismisses him.

Jordan pulls out his pack of cigarettes, slips one in his shirt pocket, and tucks another behind his ear, then holds out his pack and lighter to Brian, "Hold on to this." Brian does so, tucking them into his sweatshirt pocket, but it's one more thing that makes him think Jordan Catalano's strange.

...

Jordan's talking with Brian as he pours himself a shot, offering one to Brian, but not caring either way if he takes it. "My dad likes Tino 'cuz... Tino's like that, and, because he likes people who aren't his kids. And really," he takes the shot, "because Tino used to play ball."

"Football?"

"_Ball_. Baseball. Tino played baseball – till he got really into punk and decided organized sports meant you were playin' for the Man." Brian can't quite keep up with this logic. "The old man played for the minor leagues. He likes a guy with a good arm and can swing a bat."

"Did you play?"

Jordan nods, "Till I didn't." He holds out the other shot to Brian and when he shakes his head he takes it himself. "Tino dropped, I stopped." Fluidly Jordan leans forward across Brian, "Hey." Jordan's stopped two girls as they pass by.

Together, both girls giggle and say, "Hey." They're young. Sophomores, at the most. And short. But cute. Chewing gum and drinking, smudged eye makeup and hair flips, they smile up at the boys, leaning on one another, partly from the alcohol they've consumed, and partly from their silly adolescent dependent friendship.

Jordan swings his shoulder so that he's momentarily facing Brian, his back towards the girls. He makes a face to say, '_SAY something_' before he swings back toward them and smiles mutely, "Hey." Brian glances at him, taking in how effortlessly smooth he is with girls. '_Damn him_.'

"Either you guys got a light?" one of the girls asks; adding, "And, a cigarette?" After a moment of Brian not acting, Jordan nudges him. "Oh. Yeah. Here." He holds out the pack, they both take one, and he reaches out to hand over the lighter, but they just stand with the cigarettes in their mouths, looking expectantly at him. Brows raised, Brian lights them up, their hands momentarily on his as they inhale on the sticks resting between their lips. As they exhale he drops his hand then quickly looks away. One girl fixes the other's hair and wipes away a smudge in her lipstick. Jordan leans in a bit, speaking close to Brian's ear about the cigarettes, "Always helps."

Turning back to the boys the one with the longer hair asks, "Get us some beers?"

Jordan's hands are in his pockets, he doesn't make a move. After a beat Brian takes the cue. "Sure." He half smiles and walks to the keg. Jordan follows a few steps behind and lays a hand on Brian's shoulder as he lifts the tap. "Just, don't talk too much." Brian looks at him. "You gotta talk some, but let her do the talking. Look at her lips."

"That works?"

Jordan shrugs, "It works if it's going to."

Brian's brow furrows. "Ever think it's just you?"

Jordan weighs this possibility. "It's not." He slaps Brian' shoulder, "Good luck."

Brian stops him, "Hey, wait. _ Which one am I supposed to talk to?"

There's never been an easier answer, "Both of 'em, Brain." Jordan heads away.

* * *

At the end of the night Jordan and Brian are at an all night diner, both eating omelets. "So," Jordan asks, raising his fork to his mouth, "what's the verdict?"

"On?"

"Your first Saturday night."

"Wow. That is - incredibly condescending."

"Oh." Jordan doesn't know what this means. He does get that Brian's insulted. He hadn't intended that.

Brian sees he has to explain; he does it without condescending."I mean - you assuming that any other way of spending a Saturday night doesn't rate - it's dismissive." Brian drinks his water. When he sees Jordan's still waiting on an answer he crumples his napkin and then answers, "It was good. _ I guess."

"Kind of uneventful?"

With a tinge of relief tempered with regret Brian admits, "Yeah. So," he looks at Jordan, "this is your life - you do this - every weekend?"

"Brain," Jordan addresses him, "You're gonna find - there are people in the world who, don't, socialize based on a school night calendar."

"Clearly they don't live with my parents." Jordan laughs.

"You like having that? Someone telling you where to be - when to be there?"

"It isn't really a matter of 'liking' it - it is." He pushes his food around and looks up again; "Yeah, it drives me nuts. My parents are impossible - operating under the delusion that they're 'relatable'." His tone changes, "Two more years, right?"

Jordan's intrigued, "Till what?"

Brian answers like it's obvious, "Graduation. College. Getting out."

Genuinely curious Jordan looks at him, "You feel like that? 'Getting out'?"

Again, Brian answers like he thought it would have been more than obvious, "'Freedom'? _Yeah_."

Jordan shrugs, "I've got freedom. All I do is wait to get out." He adds more sugar to his coffee. "So, what are you going to do? After this place?"

"College." He pushes back his hair, "I'm supposed to be a doctor."

"Somebody tell you that?"

Wryly Brian answers, "Bernice and Bob Krakow."

Jordan considers this, then leans back in the booth. "I could see you as a doctor."

Brian makes a face. He does not want to be a doctor. "Civil engineer, maybe. I mean, I like physics, and, I get biology, but organic chemistry?" He's lost Jordan with the specifics, but Jordan gets not wanting what's been laid out for you. "I don't know," Brain continues; he's enjoying having somebody listen, and the fact that it's Jordan Catalano listening, by this point, is only fractionally strange. "I kind of want to just, take classes. Decide what I like. I don't want to declare my life yet."

Jordan nods, he gets that too, "Makes sense." He runs his finger round the rim of his coffee mug while Brian eats more of his omelet. Jordan looks up as the thought occurs to him, not bothered by the absolute lack of a segue, he asks, "They like the curls?"

"Huh? Who?"

"Girls. Girls really like hair. Do they like the curls?"

Brian seems to have never thought about this; with a quick head shake and brow lift he indicates '_I don't have a clue_'. "No one's thrown themselves at me over them." This makes Jordan laugh. Loudly.

Brian smiles and shifts the conversation. "So, tonight? You do this kind of stuff with Angela?"

Jordan looks at him, the traces of his smile still on his face, "You don't get to ask me what I do with Angela. Don't go there."

Though he's momentarily surprised Jordan's said it so bluntly, Brian's silence and tightened lips convey that he agrees. He shouldn't 've brought her up. Not like that. Not just to get a picture of her life. He wasn't even sure why he did it, he mostly didn't even care anymore.

Jordan can tell just by his silence that the cogs and pulleys in his mind are whirring on overdrive, "Hey," he says, "don't worry about it." Jordan drinks his coffee. "Your parents doctors?"

Brian nods, grateful once again that Jordan's not one to dwell, "Psychiatrists."

"That's the head?"

"Well, the mind."

"That what you're supposed to be?"

"They'd settle for pediatrist."

"What's that?"

"The foot."

Jordan glances at the floor to his own feet. "It got its own doctor?" Brian nods. Jordan smiles, "Crazy." The smile grows, "Okay, spill about the girls." With big eyes Brian swallows.

* * *

_Posted 11/6/12_


	23. Not such a big deal

**Yea, first story I've posted (but not written) with my favorite guy — Mr. Wilson! Thanks so much to people who are reading, and especially to those who have taken time to review!**

* * *

In the Spring, Angela stands with Jordan beneath the bleachers during their lunch period. From where they stand they have a vantage of the ASB kids starting to hang banners announcing prom bids going on sale. Angela notices but doesn't say a word about it. She's already tried going to a dance with Jordan. She tears off another piece of her sandwich and pops it in her mouth.

Jordan's seen it too, the banner, and as he bites into another one of her carrots, he says, eyes averted, "I'm not going." It doesn't come off as confrontational, it's more of an '_incase you were wondering_' situation.

Her eyes flicker to him, then refocus on their surroundings, "Okay"; she hadn't expected it to come up at all, so as his declaration hasn't thwarted any plans she can be pleasant in her response. Minus the dancing in public, prom is not something she'd be against attending, but dating Jordan Catalano doesn't look a whole lot like what she'd thought having a boyfriend might look like when she was looking forward to it from the sixth grade. She's already made her peace with it. Frankly, she is surprised he'd felt it necessary to go on the offense about it.

Apparently he wasn't done; Jordan continues, gesturing as he tries to be diplomatic, "It's not my deal."

"Okay." She squints as she looks up at him, wondering what's going on in his head, "That's not a surprise."

Jordan looks at her and swings his shoulder, "I'm just saying, 'cuz, you seem like you'd want to go."

"Well," she responds, still amiable, "that doesn't seem like the _nicest _thing you could say about how I 'seem', given your opinions on the subject. And maybe you could have said it in a nicer way since you think I want to. And, I never said I wanted to go. _And_ –" Jordan looks at her, he's not irritated, but in mild disbelief she could still have more to say on the subject. She continues, "—if I _did_, I could go without you."

"So, you _do_ want to go." She rolls her eyes, and shakes her head at him – he's incorrigible. And Jordan can't resist baiting her; jaw raised, slow wide smile growing, he asks her, "Who'd you go with?"

"Whoever."

He flashes his eyebrows at her and bites through a grin as he messes with her, "Brian? Corey?"

"You don't think I could get a real date?"

He chuckles even as he feigns innocence, "Those aren't real dates?"

Angela, who had twisted her backpack to the front so to put away the remainder of her lunch does not respond, preoccupied as she is with searching her backpack. Her brow furrows, "Did I leave my French book in your car?" Disinterested, Jordan only shrugs. With a great crunch he chomps into the last of her carrot sticks. Her effort to locate her textbook frustrated, she re-shoulders her bag and picks up the subject where she'd dropped it. "I don't need you to like what I like."

"_Is_ that what you like?"

Skirting the question, Angela focuses on the larger point, "We don't have to morph."

"What happened to the big 'We can't have two separate lives'?"

Angela does her best Catalano shrug, and flashes a smile at him when he gets the reference. "It excludes school dances if you truly think they're too painful to cope. But," she flicks his arm, "not always doing everything on my own, would be nice."

He play punches her shoulder, "I'll take you bowling."

"Terrific." Jordan chuckles at her deadpan delivery. "Anyway," she adds as she readjusts her backpack straps, "it's _your_ prom."

Now he's confused, "What'dya mean?"

Angela slightly smacks her lips before explaining, "It's for juniors and seniors."

"Huh." This had never occurred to him. Watching him, Angela's jaw shifts as she considers Jordan and wonders just what exactly his day to day interaction with the world around him looks like from his perspective. He sees her looking at him. "Whut?"

Shaking her head out of it, she smiles warmly at him, "Nothing."

Jordan's completely misinterpreted what's just happened, "What? You really want to go?"

"I didn't say that."

Half amused by the seeming ridiculousness of a person genuinely wanting to go to a dance, he teases her, "Is this, like, an 'ambition' of yours?" Her eyes roll.

"_I_ didn't even bring it up. Why are you mocking me?"

Jordan shoves her good-naturedly, still smiling to himself. "It's so easy." In response, she purses her lips and makes big eyes as if to say '_I'm pretending you're amusing._' This too makes him laugh.

Unnoticed until he is upon them, Tino appears, slapping a hand on Jordan's shoulder. "Hey party people." Jordan and Angela shift imperceptibly to change the space to welcome Tino. Angela smiles. "What's the word?" Tino turns his attention to Jordan, "J-Town," Jordan rolls his eyes — in certain moods, Tino can't resist creating off-the-cuff handles for Jordan, calling him anything but his name — Tino continues, "Pro-om is o-on." Jordan's confused – _Why is Tino also talking about prom?_ Angela laughs.

"What'dya mean?" Jordan checks behind him then back at Tino, "Did'ya just—"

Tino turns to Angela, "What's he on about?"

Angela catches Tino up, "He'd just finished saying prom 'isn't his deal.'"

At this Tino looks to Jordan with hyperbolic disbelief, then speaks to Angela in feigned indignation, "Not his 'deal'?" Tino turns on Jordan, who exhales and averts his eyes at having to be the focus of Tino's bravado. "'Not your _deal'?_ Catalano. Are you alive? Are you still with us? Prom — is everybody's 'deal.'" He cuts Jordan off before he even formulates a response, "You're going. _ Settled."

"How come?" Jordan needs this school dance thing explained to him again.

Flashing a mock expression of shock that he would ever be questioned, Tino then answers in an authentically stern tone, "First, I _said so_. Second," he indicates Angela, "you're only half this equation; don't bully her to be a sad sack killjoy like yourself. And, thirdly, if 80's cinema has taught us nothing, it's '_don't mess with prom_.' You want to see your future kids fade away in some photo 'cuz you were too cool and messed with the space-time continuum?" By this point he's got his finger pretty much in Jordan's face, which he's losing patience with quickly, "Butterfly effect. One Jordan Catalano minus one prom equals me pissed. Equals CHAOS." Jordan's lost. Not being as well versed in 80's pop culture as most, or, for that matter, chaos theory. Backing away from his friend Tino flaps an elbow in Angela's direction, "Back me up." At a loss for what to say or how to position herself on the issue, Angela smiles mildly. Tino glances at her, surprised she hasn't said anything, then moves on, taking up the cause himself once again. "You've made your girl afraid to have an opinion, ya know."

Jordan emits a good-natured smirk, "Never"; the way he sees it, Angela has nothing but opinions.

Tino leans into Angela, speaking to her as though Jordan were not there to hear it, "He's kinda mouthy."

Not wanting to get too involved in this, Angela pulls at her backpack straps as she prepares to extricate herself, "Listen, you work it out." She looks at Jordan, "I'm in if you're in."

With a small wave she heads back to main campus; Tino calls after her, completely confident, "He's in." Turning back with a smile she acknowledges the remark but knows not to take it for truth.

When she's gone Jordan turns to his friend as Tino packs and lights a cigarette, "You _had_ to do that?"

Unfazed, Tino's actually pretty self-satisfied, "It'll be good for you." Frustrated, Jordan shakes his head.

* * *

Three weeks later Angela's in her mother's bathroom trying on her dress and planning a hairstyle with Patty.

Angela looks at her mother through the mirror as Patty plays around with a French twist, "Mom, it's not a big deal."

Patty pauses, looks at Angela, then lets her hair come unfurled as she gently places her hands round Angela's shoulders. Her words are kind and her voice is understanding, "Angela, if you don't want to go, you don't have to. We can take the dress back; but," she catches her daughter's eye line, "if you want to go, it's okay to get excited." Angela looks down, fidgeting with the liquid eyeliner bottle. Patty picks up the brush and begins combing Angela's hair, treading lightly as she raises the question, "Is this about Jordan?"

Not looking up from her hands, "…Why do you say that?"

Pausing mid brush before resuming, "I think maybe," Patty chooses her words carefully, "maybe, that you think this isn't his type of thing, and so you don't want to get too excited yourself?"

Quickly shutting her mother down, Angela refutes this, "That's not it." Patty says nothing more, but when Angela sees her mother isn't claiming to know the situation, she eases up and begins again, a little more open: "Do you think…"

"Angela, don't over think it; you're supposed to be having fun." Patty stands back and admires Angela – her hair is up, her dress is on, her makeup done; speaking in quiet admiration, Patty beams, "Look at you. You're beautiful."

Embarrassed, "Mom."

"Angela, you're beautiful. Where's Daddy?"

* * *

The night of the dance, Jordan climbs the steps to the Chase house and knocks. Angela, wearing a dress of black brushed silk, opens the door to Jordan who's waiting, in only slight discomfort, on the front porch. He takes her in – the strapless sweetheart draped bodice fills out at the waist into a full skirt that falls just below her knees. Her hair, once again her natural blonde, is pulled up high in a chic chignon bouffant, with a black satin ribbon framing her face. Her makeup is minimal but her black eyeliner has been skillfully applied and evokes the 1960's. Her red lips make her light eyes pop. He's never seen her look like this. She smiles warmly, but is casual and nonchalant in her welcome. "Hi."

Patty appears behind Angela, who is still holding the door open, "Jordan! Come in!"

Jordan acknowledges Patty with a tight-lipped smile and steps past Angela into the house. As he crosses the threshold, he ducks his head towards her, greeting her with a subtle, "Hey."

Patty appeals to Jordan, "Don't kill me, I need pictures." She turns her head from the kids to call into the house, "Graham!" Danielle trots down the stairs and lingers on the landing. While Patty searches for the camera, Jordan leans in to Angela, "Hey; you look, beautiful." With her hair up, she can't revert to the comfort zone of a hair tuck, and so she must take the compliment. She blushes, which just makes her cuter. It almost knocks Jordan out.

Leaning towards him in a lowered voice, "Is it_ too_? I know this isn't your thing."

Jordan shrugs, "You look good." Absently pulling her arm up by the wrist, he gives the back of her hand a quick kiss. Meaning the night, "It could be cool." Patty renters with the camera now and they move just a little apart.

Coming in from the office, Graham greets Jordan warmly, "Jordan, hey.

"Hi."

"Okay," looking through her camera Patty motions for them to move closer together, "smile — you both look great — okay, 1, 2, 3. One more." Jordan, clad in a white buttoned shirt he ironed himself, a dark tie he'd borrowed from Tino, new, dark grey Dickies slacks, and a black leather jacket he's borrowed from his uncle, is a little stiff, and not quite smiling. Angela is smiling, but not going overboard — she's pleased, but not taking the evening too seriously. Patty snaps a second and third photo; Jordan blinks at the flash and rubs his eyes.

Danielle, descending from the landing, asks, "Where's the flower?"

Angela briefly turns back to her, short in patience, "Stop it." She needn't have been so anxious to make Jordan comfortable – he doesn't even seem to have gotten that this was directed to him. Tradition dictated a corsage, but she'd never really expected one.

"Danielle," Patty calmly intervenes.

Not understanding that the subject is verboten, she asks again, "Isn't there supposed to be a corsage?"

Angela's had enough, "Okay, we're going." To Jordan she says, "Don't worry about it." He absolutely was not. She grabs her sweater and her bag.

Graham follows them to the door, "So uh, 11:00?" Angela makes a face indicating she doesn't even remotely take this seriously. "10:30?"

Patty intervenes, "12:00 is fine. And, driving carefully? Yes?"

Angela nudges Jordan. He refocuses, "Yeh."

Angela's ready to be out the door, "Okay, bye."

"Have fun," Graham closes the door after them.

Heading down her front walk to his car, she's half a step behind him. "I like the jacket."

Looking down at it, "Think it's okay?"

Standing to the side while he opens the door for her, "It looks great."

Crossing round the back of the car and getting in, he admits, "Not all that formal."

She shrugs, "It's a high school prom, what do they want?"

Before he gets the keys in the ignition, Angela turns to him, brow creased, "Are you cool with this?"

He ignores her question, and hands her a carton, "This is for you." Seeing the corsage she is taken aback.

"It's beautiful. You didn't have to." She checks herself from going too far with the differential treatment, and says what she means, "Thank you."

"Tino picked it. I didn't know it was a thing."

Indicating her bag, "I have one for you, but, if…"

Jordan leans in and kisses her, long and deep; he pulls away slowly, "Why not."

A little bemused by how relatively game he is, she looks at him, "Look at you tonight." She pins the boutonnière of small sprigs of sage and juniper on first, smiling so warmly at him as she does, then pins on her own – bright roses – not pink, nor quite red – and green berries. She looks at it, and gives him a light peck on the lips. As she moves away he kisses her for real, holding her face close to his. He looks at her intently, studying her face. She smiles. "What're the odds Tino actually makes it?"

Moving away and starting the car, he reaches his arm round the back of her seat, "Nobody knows." She laughs.

* * *

At the dance, Associate Principal Mr. Wilson observes the scene with his wife. Wilson looks sharp in a nicely cut charcoal suit, pale silver tie and ivory shirt. His wife is beautiful, caramel skin, long, thick dark hair, pulled neatly back. Oversized earrings made of silver and chartreuse silk thread frame her face. Her ankle length silk halter dress is a deep mulberry with silver, greens and pinks. Arms crossed, head tilted sideways in her direction, he subtly points out the students she's heard stories about.

Rubbing his back as she surveys the hotel ballroom, smiling, "Ah, another high school dance."

Arms still crossed, Wilson subtly points with an index finger, "Do you see that kid over there? _That _is Jordan Catalano."

Having heard so much about him, he's already endeared to her, "He looks a little lost. Do I get to meet him?"

"Be prepared, he doesn't love talking with adults."

Jesting with a teasing nudge, "I wonder he talks to you."

"Yeah, well, 'talking', that's debatable." She laughs, and they watch as Jordan and his party travel further into the room, having only recently arrived.

As they pass by, Wilson calls to him, "Jordan!"

Jordan pauses, spots him and gives him a head not as he comes a little closer, Angela stays with him, though she'd prefer not to be talking with an administrator. "Hey," Jordan says with casual familiarity.

Wilson, greets them, smiling; "Angela. You look lovely."

"Hi…" Angela did not _dislike_ Mr. Wilson, but whatever he had with Jordan seemed to make him feel like he and she were friends, but, she just found it all a little strange.

Making introductions to his wife, "This is Angela Chase and the sharply dressed Jordan Catalano. This is my wife Samia."

She smiles warmly, "Hello, very nice to meet you."

Wilson makes light conversation, speaking to them from somewhere in the middle of the spectrum between peer and student, "Prom. Big night. Making good choices? Staying sober? No hotel rooms?" Embarrassed, Angela decides she's done with this conversation, and excuses herself by turning her face towards Jordan's shoulder, then looking away, then turning her body as well.

Samia stifles a chuckle and limply smacks her husband's shoulder, mildly chastising him, "Stop it." To Jordan she says, "I'm sorry."

Angela extricates herself from the conversation, saying to Jordan, "I'll be with Sadie," and, "Bye" to the adults.

"Have a good night Angela," Samia says warmly. As Angela crosses the room to her friends, Samia apologizes once more to Jordan on behalf of her husband, "Sorry." Then she too excuses herself, to her husband — "I'm going to say hello to Theresa. Nice to meet you, Jordan." Jordan nods goodbye as she walks towards a small grouping of teachers.

Wilson's smiling at Jordan, "I'm proud of you."

"Stop."

"'_Prom_'. It's not such a big deal; but, you're happy, you're out there. That's big."

Jordan chooses to ignore the positive reinforcement, and comments instead on Wilson's wife. "She's pretty."

"Didn't think I could pull it off?" Jordan chuckles. Wilson pats Jordan on the shoulder as he moves on through the room, "Have a good night."

Reciprocating, "Yeah."

* * *

At the end of the night, outside the dance Angela and Jordan stand with Tino and his date. Tino, naturally, looks dapper in his grandfather's heathered-grey suit, perfectly tailored to him. His date, Bryn, wears a white mini sheath dress with silver embellishments. Her blonde bobbed hair has fading pink strips framing her face. As they talk, she stands snugged up against his chest, her arm around his waist, his around her shoulder. Feeling mellow, and content to be held, she zones out from the conversation. Bryn is a senior, and Tino's girlfriend, but one they rarely see. This is only Angela's third time meeting her. Bryn and Tino are seriously crazy about each other, but their relationship is theirs, and looks like no one else's — they're only together when they want to be and on their own the rest of the time. She likes Jordan and the others well enough, but to her, dating Tino does not mean dating his friends; when they're together, they're alone.

To Jordan and Angela, Tino asks, "So, what's the plan?" To his date, speaking into the top of her head as she snugs against him, "Where you wanna go?" She murmurs something — inaudible to the others — into his chest.

Indicating Angela with his shoulder, Jordan speaks up, "I gotta take her home."

Reacting good-naturedly appalled, Tino laments, "Aw, Angela, c'mon! The night is young, your boy's dressed up, your hair's all gussied; come out and play!"

"Hey, if you wanna talk to my parents, I'm game."

"Hell yeah I'll talk to Mr.–" Tino interrupts himself to consult with Jordan, "Which one's scarier?"

Needing no time to consider, Jordan goes with "Mrs." Angela looks back at Jordan; she kind of smirks.

Tino completes his sentence, "— _Mrs._ Chase."

Pulling on her sweater, Angela is dubious, "Well, good luck with that."

Playing at getting the reason Angela has to get home so early, he speaks to her as if in confidence, "Does she not like him? Is that the problem?" He leans in a bit, like it was just between her and him, "Is it because he doesn't talk?" Now mock whispering, "Or is it the hair?" Tino's date quietly chuckles about the hair comment.

Jordan, standing behind Angela, has draped his arms over her for support, and lounges his head on hers. He speaks drawn out, like he's bored of saying It so many times, "We've _ got _ to _ go."

Though Jordan and Angela can clearly hear him, Tino speaks to Bryn as if confidentially (still to the top of her head), "We're cutting into their good-byes."

"'Parking'" she adds.

Amused by his friend, but losing his patience for just standing around, Jordan straightens up, laying hold of Angela's shoulders, and speaks with more gumption, "We're leaving."

Assuming the weight and solemnity of a historian, Tino launches into a mock narration, "Let it be said, that on this night, a parent's over-protectiveness —" adding in a lowered volume, "however justified it might be —" then resuming, "got in the way of a child's fun." Inserting in a rushed appendix, he adds, "Not to mention her date's."

Jordan, doing a handshake-shoulder-clutch-thing with Tino as he and Angela start to move out, wryly remarks, "Yeah, that's one for the history books."

Angela warmly touches her hand to Bryn's back, "Goodnight." She smiles endearingly at Tino, "Tino." She hugs him; he kisses her cheek.

"You're looking very Bardot tonight, Chase." Not minding at all, Jordan knows he didn't get that. Tino lights a cigarette, inhales, then tucks it in his date's mouth, who's back in his arms. "Well, it is a night to remember — Jordan Catalano went to prom."

Mildly grouchy when people talk about him with exception, Jordan questions, "What's that mean?"

"Buddy, you're so 'too cool for school' you barely go to school."

Amused, but not quite getting Tino's actual meaning, Jordan shakes his head. "See you tomorrow." To Bryn, "Later." Jordan takes Angela's hand and they head towards the parking lot. Tino pretends to look at a watch and calls after them, "Eighteen — no — seventeen minutes!" Without turning round Jordan holds up a hand as a motionless wave in response.

* * *

In his car outside her house, Angela looks at Jordan, a little dreamily, taking him in. She speaks softly, meaning what she says, "I had a really nice time."

He looks at her, blinks, "Yeah?"

Studying his face fondly, she nods subtly. "Thank you."

He can't take his eyes off her. Was she always this pretty? All those months ago when she'd pushed him off her, did she look like this? So sweet, so grown up and beautiful. Did he know then that he would love her? "Sure."

Biting her lip through a smile, "What're you doing now?"

He needed to kiss her, "I don't know."

"Catch up with Tino?"

"Maybe. Doubt it. _Alone time_." Taking her hand, he lightly bites into the flesh on her index finger, "Shane's got somethin' going."

"I didn't see him tonight." Jordan silently chuckles, releasing her hand.

"Shane, uh…

"Doesn't do well, with the ladies?"

"He does well — for a couple hours."

"Couldn't get a date?"

"Couldn't keep one." Angela again looks at Jordan, holding his gaze. Her eyes darting back and forth across e dearly loved feature of his face. She didn't think she could be this happy.

Jordan breaks the silence, "Listen—" But he never finishes, kissing her instead. After they eventually break away, she waits, eyes wide expecting him to finish his sentence, but he is content just sitting there with her, happy to be there in his darkened car, hanging out with his girl.

"So," she asks, "was it dumb of us to go?"

"Who knows."

Really thinking about it, "It didn't feel too dumb…"

He eyes her strapless neckline, "The dress wasn't dumb." Angela smiles slowly, the smile gradually widening across her face. She leans in to kiss her boyfriend. In not much time the center divider is no longer dividing them. The car's windows steam as her skirt lifts higher, his neckline widens, and hers is compromised. Her hands hold his face to hers while his entangle in secret explorations in fabric, elastic, and skin. Angela can hardly catch her breath, Jordan can hardly stop himself.

At 12:11 she reluctantly pulls away. She rolls her eyes; "Curfew," she says with regret.

"It's cool." Leans in, about to kiss her, "I'll see you Monday."

* * *

_Posted 9/6/12_


	24. Outlaws

**_Something silly that stemmed from some still shots from the show... _Not_ my favorite. As a whole it did not quite turn out as I had hoped, and I kind of wrote myself into a silly hole, but it's written, so now it's posted. :/_**

* * *

Early on a Wednesday evening, Angela shows up to the loft looking to meet up with Jordan as they'd arranged. On the sidewalk outside the street entrance to the building she stumbles upon Joey and Shane shouting at each other. They're blocking the double doors and Angela stops short, uncertain of how to proceed. Nervously she says a quiet hello as the boys continue shouting. "Hey…"

Although the mood is heavy and intense, and Shane and Joey really are pissed at each other, the overt hostility they're displaying is not all consuming, and Shane pulls out of the argument just quick enough to vaguely acknowledge her. "Hey, Angela."

But Angela Chase entering the scene has done nothing to distract Joey. He continues, "Are you kidding, Man? I'll kill you."

"I don't think so," Shane fires back. The two boys move in to throw punches. Angela looks very unsure of how to proceed — does she get out of the way, does she get out of there all together? Additionally she's not entirely sure how real this is;_ is this an overly aggressive but fundamentally fraternal brawl, or are these two actually going to kill each other?_

The matter is further muddled for her when Joey lunges in at Shane and for dramatic effect throws down his half drunk beer can, which flies at Angela, who catches it as it partially spills on her. At a loss for what else to do she holds the can upright and moves further away from the boys as Joey swings at Shane.

"Hey!" a deep and authoritative voice commands from nowhere. "Break it up!" Two police officers, one of whom — the one speaking — Angela recognizes, approach with flashlights in hand. "What's going on?" the officer interrogates. The boys freeze, Angela moves backwards. The officer looks from Joey to Shane to Angela then back to the boys, surveying the scene; "There a problem?"

Joey shakes off the fight, readjusts his shirt, and plays it cool for the cops, "Everything's great."

The officer shines his light in the boys' faces, and then into Angela's, asking her, "You alright?"

"She's fine," Shane answers for her.

"Hey!" The officer turns on Shane, "Talk when you're spoken to. Otherwise, shut up." He then turns back to Angela. "You. I know you?" Caught off guard with that one, the boys' brows furrow.

"Uh…" Angela's too nervous to articulate anything more than this.

"What's that?" the officer prompts, still shining the light in her face.

"You, uh," she starts again, glancing from the officer to Shane and Joey, "you gave me a ride home, once."

"'A ride home'?" he repeats in confusion. Half a moment later his eyes narrow in recognition; "Anne Frank girl?" She nods and Joey snorts in condescending derision and disbelief, _Chase would be friends with a cop_. The light's now shining in his eyes. "These your friends?" the officer asks her; he doesn't mask his disapproval. "What'd I say 'bout staying out of trouble."

Joey wants out of this and he takes this connection between the cop and Angela as his cue to reason their way out of it. "Look, everything's cool. We're cool. She's cool—"

"Shut up," says the second officer.

"You been drinking?" the first officer asks, looking around.

"No." It's Shane who answered this time.

But Shane's declarative 'No' is countered when the officer shines the light on the empty beer cans at their feet; he then sees the one still in Angela's hands. "_Okay_." Now this is happening and he turns to Angela, "What's your name?"

Softly she answers, "Angela."

"Okay, Angela, dump it." She doesn't move. Her mind's racing too quickly for her to immediately catch his meaning. "The beer. Dump it." Still a little confused, Angela tips the can over and slowly pours out what liquid is left. When she's finished, he speaks to his partner. "Okay, get 'em in the car."

"What for?" Shane challenges.

"You gonna tell me you're twenty-one?" queries the partner as he steps in. "Open container. Disorderly conduct—" he pauses as he looks down at his watch, he waits for a moment... then proceeds, "Breaking curfew."

"I'm calling it in," says the first officer officiously as he turns back to their vehicle.

"Come on!" Joey indignantly objects.

"Okay, Miss," the second police officer approaches Angela and cover's her head as he guides her into the backseat. She's gone pale and is so alarmed at this point she's having trouble reacting.

"What're you doing?" Shane questions. "She didn't do anything." He continues his protest as Angela is put into the backseat of the patrol car. "Give her a breathalyzer. She doesn't drink."

"Hey—" the first officer says as he gets right in Shane's face, "keep it up."

Angela looks stricken and Shane calls out to her in an attempt to calm her. "Angela—"

"Kid, get in the vehicle," the partner says as he herds Shane to the door.

"This is bogus," Shane mutters as he too is guided backwards into the squad car.

"This is bullshit," Joey spits as next he is put into the car.

"Watch the mouth," the second officer chides as he shuts the door on them and moves round the back of the vehicle to the passenger seat.

Now sitting beside her Shane looks over to Angela, "Don't sweat it. It's gonna be fine."

"Hey," Joey interjects with cold mockery, "she's cool; she knows the cop. 'He gave her a ride.'" He looks Angela over, "Right?"

She can only say one thing: "Are we under arrest?"

Shane shrugs, then adds, "Won't stick."

The police officer puts down his radio and shifts the car into drive; looking back at them through the rearview mirror as he does, he informs them, "We'll call your parents at the station."

Angela's head drops into her hands, "Oh God."

Joey looks at her with amused contempt, "You do know that you didn't do anything?" Angela does not respond.

Joey notes her lack of movement and looks to the officers upfront feigning concern, "I think she's DNR." He leans into her, crossing Shane to do so, "_Hey_."

Dully, Angela speaks into her hands, "My parents are going to kill me."

"Again," Joey inserts like he's reasoning with an idiot, "you didn't do anything."

"I don't think they'll see it that way," Angela laments.

"Plead the innocent bystander," contributes Shane.

"Think it's who I was 'standing by'."

Shane's looking for clarification, but 's pretty sure that was just a remark at his and Joey's expense, "What's that mean?"

Tired and dispirited Angela walks them through it: "I was there waiting for Jordan. You're Jordan's friends. And I'm grounded. At the very least."

Settling back into the seat, Shane's chin lifts into the air as he shuts his eyes and remarks, "J said your folks were intense."

Angela scoffs, "'Intense'? You think being grounded for being arrested — or whatever this is — is intense?"

"Well," Shane casually reflects, "_yeah_. I mean, this is all total," he raises his voice for the benefit of the officers, "_BS_ — It's not your fault if they can't see it."

Angela turns her face toward her reinforced window, this conversation isn't helping at all.

"What're they gonna say?" Joey asks rhetorically.

Angela shuts her eyes, blocking out her view from the backseat of a patrol car, thinking, _Everyone who knows my parents know want they're going to say._..

* * *

"Angela," Graham says sternly once they're back home from the police precinct and seated around the dining table, "what were you doing in that neighborhood?"

"I was meeting Jordan." Angela's response is devoid of any emotion. She isn't particularly in the wrong, but their response to picking her up from the police station is exactly what she'd known it would be, and she's being careful to watch her tone so as not to further provoke them. She's cognizant that what she's said so far did little to answer her father's question and before she further antagonizes them she extrapolates, "His band practices there."

"I thought you said they practice in someone's garage," Patty catches.

Angela nods. "Tino's. They do. Sometimes."

"And this place...?" Patty prompts.

"It's a loft. They rent it. They rehearse there so neighbors don't complain." She looks to them, "It's not a big deal. I've been there before."

"Actually," Patty says, looking to Graham for agreement, "everything you just said: high school boys renting their own private space, no neighbors around, that's all a big deal. Also, considering we've been under the impression — delusion, apparently — that we know where you are when you're out of the house, and yet this is the first we're hearing about this _loft_." Of course, Patty had heard about the loft. Months earlier while listening in on a phone conversation, but she could hardly admit to it now, and she had not known that Angela was going there, nor would she have imagined, as now seems to be the case, that it is rented out to a bunch of teenagers.

"You've been there _before_?" Graham clarifies, also not liking the sound of any of this.

Her answer is flat and unprovocative in tone, if not in content, "Tons." Angela tucks her hair. "It's fine."

"Why don't you let us decide what is 'fine'" her father amends.

"First of all," Patty starts in again, "that is not a good neighborhood."

"What are you talking about?" Angela's still being careful not to come across as giving attitude or as being difficult, but she is going to make her case and undercut her parents' hyperbolic reactions if she can. "The print shop is like, three blocks away. 'Not a good neighborhood?' What do you think is going to happen?"

"Look at what _did_ happen," Patty points out starkly.

"But that had nothing to do with it. That was just them. That could have happened anywhere," Angela argues.

"You're not helping your case any," Graham points out.

Patty confirms this, "No."

"So," Angela looks from her mother to her father, "what? Am I in trouble?"

"I think that's a safe bet," says Graham. "Seeing as we just sprung you from the big house." Angela rolls her eyes.

"That's not fair. I wasn't doing anything."

"'Wrong place in the wrong time'," Patty suggests, to which Angela nods. But this turns out to have been a trick as Patty retorts with, "But you chose to be in that 'wrong place'. Those boys are people you chose to be around." Angela initially starts to protest that she hadn't been there to hang with Shane and Joey, but then questions the prudence of totally denying Jordan's friends, lest that should disable her in any future negotiations. Patty simultaneously cuts her off with, "They're Jordan's friends: you hang around him, you hang around them. _Right_?" Angela has to concede. And now she's getting nervous, '_How far is this going? Is everything, Jordan and all of it, about to be renegotiated?_' Patty registers Angela's dismay and she speaks to her with purpose, "Angela, we like Jordan. He's a nice enough kid, BUT, we were worried from the start what you dating him would lead to."

"Meaning?"

Graham steps in, "He's older. He has a car. And apparently an apartment."

"It's not an apartment—"

"He drinks," Patty adds.

Before Angela can get out a rebuttal Graham's lengthening the list, "He smokes."

Angela again begins a protest — she's actually gone to great lengths to keep Jordan's smoking from her parents — but once more her efforts are thwarted before she forms an actual word: "Oh, Angela, don't even bother." Angela closes her mouth. And apparently Patty's not finished listing the Catalano grievances; "His friends get into fights that end with you reeking of alcohol and getting pulled into the police station," brow arched, she looks at Angela, essentially challenging her to deny this.

Angela cannot exactly, so she skips past it and goes on defense, "He wasn't there. Why is he getting the blame for this?"

"No," Patty interjects with crisp assurance, "that's you."

"Well, why _wasn't_ he there?" Graham asks, getting a little sidetracked. "If you're meeting him, in this part of town—"

"At night," Patty inserts.

"Right. Then, why isn't he there to meet you?" Both Graham and Patty look to Angela for a response.

"Why are you 'meeting' him at all?" But they've already been round and round this argument before, and Angela will avoid it now if she can.

Angela is momentarily stumped by how to proceed by way of addressing Graham and Patty's concerns; when she does speak her voice is steady and reasonable, "I don't know where he was. He could have been inside the whole time." She looks at them, "This was not his fault."

Patty's brows raise, "You going to tell us this kind of thing would have happened if you were hanging out with Sharon. Or Brian Krakow?"

"Wait," Angela stops the conversation; "What's happening? Are you forbidding me to see him?" _And why had her mother said Brian's name like she had_? Her parents look at each other. They don't know that they'd meant for the conversation to get that far. They shift gears and slow it down.

"We're concerned," Patty states. "We don't want you to grow up too quickly."

"I'm fine."

"Honey," Graham says, "you're not."

"Look, it happened. I'm fine. I'm not fundamentally changed." She looks them both in the eye, trying to reassure them with her most reasonable approach; "Whether I hang out with them or not, it already happened."

Those were not the right words; immediately Graham counters with, "What's going to happen next time?"

After a pause Angela says plainly, "I'll still be okay." After which she adds, "I'm not a baby."

"I don't think that's what we said," Patty says.

Quiet. After a moment Angela lifts her head and asks, "So? What now? Am I grounded?"

Patty sighs and thinks hard before she decides on what to say. "Angela, you are not to drink. Do you understand that?"

"I wasn't. I don't." Angela's eyes narrow, "Do you believe me? _ You can ask anyone." She continues, adding, "They'll tell you the truth. They won't lie for me — Jordan's friends."

Graham scratches his head, "I actually don't know if I find that comforting."

Angela attempts to explain herself, "They'd just think it was funny."

Patty skips over this to what has been bothering her, "Why were they fighting?"

"I don't know."

Patty looks at her, "Was it anything to do with you?"

Angela laughs; the absurdity of this notion demands it — Shane, who could pretty much take her or leave her, and Joey, who's warmed to her even less, fighting over her: "Mom, no. Not at all. No."

"So what was it about?" her mother persists.

"I don't know. Nothing. It wasn't anything."

"See," Graham says to her, "Your definition of 'not anything' doesn't actually leave us with a load of confidence."

"That's right," confirms Patty. "The police obviously thought it was something."

"Or is this just par for the course? So this could happen again."

"It only happened 'cuz I was there."

Patty's brow furrows, "Explain."

Angela sounds a little bored of explaining what should have seemed straightforward but she curbs her tone because she does not want to find herself on their bad side. "Two guys fighting with a girl standing there, they just came to check it out. When they saw the beer they took us in." She reiterates: "I was not drinking."

"So, what you're saying is the problem was that you were there." Patty looks to Graham, "Sounds like we're in agreement."

"I hope you can see why we're having a hard time not thinking something's not a big deal when the police officers thought it was a big deal. Are you hearing us?"

"Yes."

"Do you take our meaning?" Patty looks at Angela for confirmation.

"Yes."

"From now on, if you're going somewhere with Jordan, you're going there _with _Jordan. No more 'I'm meeting him there.' And you are not to be around alcohol. At all. I mean it. I'm not saying 'you not drinking it', I'm saying, 'it's there, you're not'."

Angela can tell Patty means business, but still she asks, "Is that realistic?"

"I think it is," is Patty's flat response. "Are you telling us it's not?" This question was loaded and Angela tries her best to turn it back on them.

"So I'm not allowed to go to parties? To see Jordan play with his band?"

"If that's what that means," Patty says to her evenly.

"Probably shouldn't 'a mentioned he had his own apartment," Graham points out.

"It's not—" Angela begins to amend.

"It have keys, and a lock?" Graham poses. Angela says nothing and Graham knows what that means. Graham looks around for rhetorical effect, "Anyone take the time to tell these kids they're just seventeen?" Angela wisely suppresses an eye roll. They all let it rest there for the time being.

The phone rings. No one makes a move to pick it up, but eyes follow the source of the sound. The ringing stops and momentarily they hear Danielle calling down from the landing above, "Angela! Phone."

Angela looks to her parents for a reprieve, "I need to explain what happened; he must've been waiting." They look at each other then exhale and wave her off. Angela rises and heads upstairs to take the phone from her sister.

"Two minutes," Patty calls after her.

* * *

After hanging up with Angela once he was finally able to get ahold of her, Jordan looks around the empty loft. _Great_.

He looks up when the wide door to the loft opens and in comes Shane, newly released and returned to retrieve his jacket and keys. Jordan, irritated already from sitting around guessing and worrying as he waited for more than an hour for Angela, now having just heard the story, stands and confronts his friend, and's somewhat aggressive as he does so, "What happened?"

Shane shrugs, being pretty blasé about it. He does not give Jordan his full attention as he packs up Joey's bass and searches for his house keys. "Nuthin' happened."

"She got _arrested_," Jordan emphasizes.

"So did I. And Joe. And," he says as he snaps closed the guitar case, "it's not like they booked her. They didn't take her prints or anything."

Jordan's not getting sidetracked, "You let her get arrested."

"'Let'?" Shane scoffs. "What exactly should I've done?"

"Spoken up."

"We did, Man. _You_ argue with Officer Hard-Ass. _ Anyway, she wreaked of beer."

Jordan's brow creases, "How's that possible?"

Shane stretches and scratches his head as he answers, barely taking note of his friend's almost seething countenance, "We threw a beer at her."

"Why's that?" Jordan sternly interrogates.

"Well, it wasn't exactly _at_ 'er," Shane amends. Jordan's eyes flash in his direction and look sharply at him, but Shane's expression is blank — now that it's over he doesn't have much interest in rehashing the details.

Still pissed Jordan turns and paces a step, "I can't believe this."

"It's fine," Shane sounds bored again; "It'll go away."

Jordan 's dubious as he paces, "We'll see…"

"The girl's not scarred," Shane shrugs dispassionately. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

* * *

The next morning at school Angela gets off the bus with Brian. They begin making their way towards class when there's a tug on her backpack and she's pulled back from moving forward. Jordan's behind her playfully holding onto her backpack loop. "_Hey, you_," he says, mimicking an officer in pursuit, "Freeze."

Angela turns to him, tucking her hair, "Hey."

Brian too stops and Jordan gives him a head nod. "'D'ya hear the word?" Jordan poses to Brian. "_Jailbird_"; Jordan teases as he play-wrings Angela's neck.

Brian nods, but he doesn't see much humor in it, "Yeah."

Angela too isn't all that amused, "I hadn't," she says as she pushes hair away from her face as Jordan releases her, "exactly planned on telling the world."

Jordan tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear for her as he leans in intimately, smiling and teasing her, "They cuff you?" He cocks an eyebrow at her as he grins.

Angela pushes at him, "It wasn't funny."

Jordan soberly agrees, "I know." He'd been pretty upset about it the night before, but he figured Angela already had the tendency to overreact, and so Jordan, never one to pile on the drama, had decided to approach it from a different tact. If it wasn't treated like a big deal, maybe it wouldn't turn out to be one. Anyway, it is incredibly difficult for him to figure out what her parents will and will not react to; it isn't always as clear cut as he might have originally guessed. But her parents not included, Jordan himself didn't like what happened. Angela was never meant to be collateral damage. Her fear of cops was supposed to carry on as some kind of endearing joke, not end up with her in the backseat of a squad car with Shane and Joey. He looks at her, elbowing her, "You okay?"

"_I'm _fine," she says, "I don't know about—"

"'Bout Patty and Graham Chase," he finishes for her.

"Mm, hm," she nods.

Jordan, who'd never thought it was a joke in the first place, looks to her for the fallout, "What'd they say? 'Grounded'? 'Disappointment'?"

"'Irresponsible'. 'Untrustworthy,'" she contributes.

Jordan nods knowingly, "'Shape up'?"

"Uh, something like that. Try 'Bad influence.'"

"Who?" Jordan didn't see anything good coming from this, but he didn't see that one coming. Angela wordlessly points at him. "_Me_?" He looks from her to Brian for friendly validation; "Wasn't even there." But Brian, having nothing he chooses to contribute, only purses his lips. Jordan's eyes squint as he turns back to Angela, trying to get this straight, "So," he asks in detached disbelief, "I'm really getting the blame for this?" Angela's nose crinkling serves as silent confirmation. Jordan's eyes roll involuntarily. He can't believe this. He looks back at her, "Ya grounded?"

"Probation."

"Whatever that means." Jordan had been ready to let it go but he picks it back up again, "'Probation' from what? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time? They got an answer for that?" Brian decides this isn't his conversation to witness and he wordlessly waves a goodbye at both of them, which they acknowledge, and he quickens his pace to create some distance between them.

Once Brian's far enough ahead, Angela proceeds, "I think it's more that I was in the right place at any time." Jordan's brow furrows as this reasoning makes no sense to him. She explains: "I was at the right place — I was at the loft to meet you. And what happened, just, happened, because— because it did. That could have happened anytime, anywhere, right?" Jordan doesn't respond, he doesn't think he likes where this is going. "Look, they're not happy about where the loft is. They're not happy there is a loft. They're not happy there was drinking, or fighting, or anything that would raise a cop's interest. They're particularly not happy that in the end it wasn't anything particularly big — Joey and Shane are fine, there was no big blow out, it was just, _them." _She tucks her hair and looks at him, "Basically, they're not happy."

She's mildly surprised when Jordan chuckles. "So, they're mad because they can't control everything." He chuckles again. She's confused by this till he playfully hits her arm saying, "They're so obviously your folks." Angela responds with a sassy look, to which he just laughs. "So, the Chases can't control everything, and because they're my friends—"

"And Because you weren't there to meet me, and because you were making me meet you in the first place—" Jordan makes a face in regards to that second part, her parents have strange ideas 'bout what does and does not fly in terms of getting together. He continues.

"—I get the blame."

"I don't know why you're fixating on this blame idea. They haven't issued any decrees or anything. Just—" she tucks her hair again.

"What?" Jordan's looking at her looking for a rational explanation of anything that he could do differently to fix the situation; his expression tells her there isn't.

Angela shakes her head. "I don't know." But she looks at him, earnestly. Her parents aren't alone in not wanting something like this to happen again. _Yeah, nothing truly terrible had actually happened_, but this was enough run-ins with police officers for her.

He answers her earnestness with a look of his own. "Angela—" He doesn't exactly have the words to finish this sentiment. "Relax." As she opens her mouth to respond, the bell rings and Angela for a moment turns her attention to the main building. Jordan takes advantage of the distraction and shoves her lightly, "Get to class; troublemaker." Because it's easier, and because she doesn't want to fixate on it any longer, Angela halfway smiles and then starts to head off.

But she only takes two steps before she turns back. "I think I left my French book in the loft." She adds soberly, "I was meaning to grab it last night."

"Wull, get it today." She makes no response. "What? Not allowed?" She purses her lips to the side and shrugs. In the absence of parental decrees Jordan's taking charge, "That's stupid. Come by later, we're having practice." Biting her lower lip Angela nods and starts off for class again. When she's crossed the remainder of the lot Jordan calls after her, "You, hands up!" She grants him the obligatory look-back and finds him grinning at her. Then she cinches her backpack straps and climbs the front steps to the main building while Jordan makes his way toward his homeroom located in one the auxiliary buildings.

* * *

After work, Patty, none too thrilled to drive all the way back across town to where she'd just left, drives Angela to Tino's loft to retrieve the missing French textbook. Angela rides along in silence, trying to figure out what her mother's thinking. "It's right here," Angela says, breaking the silence.

Patty pulls over and and looks up at the industrial building. "Oh, Angela." She looks at her, "_This_ is where you've been spending your time?"

Angela doesn't want to start all this over again. "I'm hardly ever here."

"That's not what I gather." Patty looks from Angela back to the building; "I've been hearing about this loft for months." Angela makes a face; she'd only mentioned the stupid thing last night. Patty changes the subject, "Angela, go get your book." Angela looks at her mother dully, then undoes her seatbelt and opens her passenger door. "You sure someone's up there?"

Angela nods. "They're practicing." She shuts the door and heads up the sidewalk.

"Angela." Angela turns back. "Up and down again," Patty directs. Angela nods, then pulls open the heavy door to the interior staircase.

Angela can hear the sounds of the rehearsal as she climbs the stairs. She pushes open the door and, unnoticed by the band, currently mid-song, Angela makes her way through the room and retrieves her book. She's not the only visitor, and there are kids scattered about in clusters, listening some, but mostly talking and generally hanging out. As Angela exchanges words with a girl she knows, the song ends and Tino looks up and spots her. Instantly he moves into the mic with a rush of dramatic flair, "This one's going out to," he makes a point of looking at each subject as he calls his or hers name, "Shane Williams Jr., Joey Cash, and," he looks her in the eye and points a finger at her with deliberation, "Angela Kristofferson, and this," he says looking at everyone in the loft, "is a little Waylon Jennings." He drinks his beer lifts it up to the sky, and speaks into the mic as he smashes his bottle to the ground, "Here's to all ya outlaws!" and Tino begins to play. "Well, It's the same old tune, fiddle and guitar, Where do we take it from here..."

As none of the others know the music to "Are You Sure Hank Done it This Way," much less who Hank Williams was, Jordan, Joey, Rich and the rest of Frozen Embryos Redux stand by as Tino plays the hell out of it, harnessing his grittiest baritone. Jordan slings his guitar behind him and takes a few steps towards Angela, who, seeing he's still plugged into his amp crosses to meet him. Jordan leans down and swoops in for an unexpected kiss. "Hey," he smiles. He leans in with a grin and makes a nod towards Tino, "This is fer you, ya know."

"Tino luxuriates in my little downfalls," she observes wryly. Jordan chuckles appreciatively. Watching him play for a bit she shakes her head, "I don't know it, do you?"

Jordan smiles, "He loves that outlaw shi—" The music stops.

"_Patricia_," Tino calls out with emphasis, "at last we meet!" Angela turns and sees her mother standing in the doorway to the loft. Everyone else turns too and when they see it's an adult, more than that, a parent, who's standing there, they all kind of break off and disperse, closing ranks, so to speak. Tino, enthused rather than off-put, unplugs his guitar and walks straight over to her. Angela and Jordan watch it happen then she follows slowly after. "How ya doin'?" Tino as usual is disarmingly familiar and self-possessed.

"Tino. I'm presuming." Patty's greeting is wry but not unkind.

"At your service," Tino wags.

"Mom," Angela says in hopes of prompting their departure.

For Tino's gratification, Patty's mouth forms a tight-lipped smile, then she turns her attention to her daughter; her tone is dry and matter-of-fact, "You find your book?" Patty looks around the loft, surveying the space her daughter and her teenage friends have access to. Angela swallows and tries to remember if anyone was drinking — or _smoking_... — without conspicuously looking.

"Want a tour?" Tino offers. Tino follows Pattys gaze. "Not exactly a den of iniquities." She arches her brow at him. "All's I'm sayin' is, nobody's turning into a person of ill repute; not 'cuz of this place."

"You're not helping," Angela says.

"C'mon," Tino says, addressing Angela as if Patty were not right there, "I just said 'ill repute' that's gotta buy some cred." He turns to Patty, "Right?"

"Angela," says Patty, ready to leave.

The other kids and remaining band members have turned their backs or retreated to far corners; had Patty not been blocking the doorway many may have just left.

"Look," Tino begins again with actual earnestness. "Don't know why I'm the one saying this," he shoots a look at Angela like she's a chicken, and maybe a quick one at Jordan as well, "but I guess I'm doing this: Angela Chase's crazy respectful of your rules. To the point that it's a major drag. (She lives pretty much in fear of your wrath.) She doesn't break your rules, last night included, and, preconceptions aside, we're not bad kids. We're not getting her in any trouble." Having finished, and without an air of confrontation, Tino looks Patty squarely in the eye. Angela looks from Tino to Patty. Tino's stance communicates he'll remain, unflinching, until he can see he's made an impact on the infamously stalwart Patty Chase. Tino begins strumming on his unplugged electric guitar: "'Kids are different today,' I hear ev'ry mother say, trusting kids out with their friends's just a drag..." he looks to see if he's lost, or gained, any headway. Then Tino nods at her with a winning grin, like the two of them are in on some kind of secret, "You Richards or Jagger?" he queries with arched brows, continuing his strumming. Patty doesn't answer and he isn't fazed. "Jagger. Clearly." He strums a little more.

"We can go," Angela says to her mother, uncomfortable with the lack of response Tino's liberties have been met with. But Patty doesn't move. She looks round the loft again, taking in the instruments, the hammock, the mini fridge, the pay phone, the electrical cable spool standing in for a table, a _couch_, and what looks like a collection of kitchen chairs from somebody's grandmother or a flea market. Nothing about it looks too terrible — _excepting the couch_ — but appearances are never the problem. She looks once more at the illusive boy she's heard so much of, from him to his friend, hanging back much as he always does, and from this alarmingly good-looking, diffident young man, to her own child. _How many times will she find herself in this place?_ Parenting a teenager seems to her an extended series of near catastrophes. Forever having to choose between trusting in a child, their friends, and in the world at large, and leaving that child open to harm, hurt, and — life. _Is there a right answer?_

Patty looks at her watch. To Angela's surprise she then takes the book from her, and looks to Jordan, "Get her home by dinner?"

Angela's blown away and Jordan, a little dumbstruck, nods. He clears his throat, "Yeah."

Patty takes them all in, "Good. And, uh, no more surprises." She readjusts her purse strap on her shoulder and starts to turn, but pauses and turns back to ask, "Jordan, Tino, would you like to join us for dinner?" Angela isn't sure this is her mother.

"If you can't tame 'em, feed 'em?" Tino asks.

"Something like that."

Tino looks around and answers definitively, "Dinner at the Chase's? I'm there."

"Good. Jordan?"

"Sure." He clears his throat, "Yeah. Okay."

"This guy," Tino rolls his eyes in fast camaraderie with Patty.

Patty gives them all a reserved smile, and turns to leave the loft under very different circumstances than she'd foreseen when she'd made her way up the stairs just a few minutes earlier. She taps Angela's nose, "Homework. After dinner." Angela, embarrassed, but also impressed, nods. Tino's eyes go big for emphasis. He sings after her, "And Patty has a big, big heart, Bigger than her life," and strums the guitar with one punctuating strike. Once the door has shut, a slightly dazed Angela turns to Jordan; dispassionately he raises his hand to her and cooly she gives him a reserved high five as she crosses back into the room to watch the last bit of rehearsal, and mor importantly to enjoy a hard won bit of freedom.

* * *

_Posted 1/1/13 Happy New Year! Just got back from my polar bear plunge!_


	25. Happy Birthday

Outside her house, on a warm summer day, Angela climbs into Jordan's parked car. She's grinning, and he smiles at her, sedately, and sincere. "Happy birthday." She smiles, and kisses him, slow and sweet. When she pulls away, she's smiling.

"Thank you."

"Sixteen."

Smiling, "That's right."

"So," eyeing her, "what's the plan?"

"Um, Rickie and I are going into the city tomorrow night. And dinner with the family tonight. Sharon's coming, I think. Maybe sleeping over."

Taking her hand, repositioning their fingers several times, "What about today?"

Smiling, "Nothing."

"Can I have the day?"

"Of course."

"Beach?"

Smiling wider with a decisive nod, "Sure."

Jordan watches her a moment, studying her face, then he breaks his gaze to take something from the glove box. "Here." He passes her a small plain box. She beams, and looks him steadily in the eye, then smiles again, and opens the box. In it are two guitar picks. She smiles a bit, tucks her hair, then looks back at him. Watching her, "You said you wanted to learn."

Smiling again, "Thank you." She leans in and kisses him. When she's returned to her side of the car, she quietly conjures enthusiasm, "I'm excited."

Still watching her, Jordan offhandedly adds, "Oh, and that." He jerks his head towards his rearview mirror where a small necklace hangs. She looks, then looks back at him, hiding her surprise with a head tilt and her sincerest smile. Pulling her eyes away from him, she takes the delicate silver chain down from the mirror, and holding it lightly in her hands she runs her fingertips over the small, hand-hammered silver hoop and blue enamel disc within. Looking back to him, she speaks softly, "Wow. _ It's great." Jordan's uncomfortable by her reaction. He hadn't meant it to be a big thing, which it turns, out is what touched her. "Thank you." He shrugs; but watches from the corner of his eyes as her hair falls around her face, partially shielding her lingering smile as she fastens it around her neck.

"No sweat." He stops, and censures himself. "I mean, 'Yeah; you're welcome.' Happy birthday."

Peeking briefly into the rearview mirror, she places her hand over the pendant where it rests on her collarbone. "Okay; give me five minutes to grab my stuff." He nods and smiles.

…

At the beach, Jordan and Angela lay, enjoying the sun. Jordan turns to her, "So why no party?"

Angela lifts her head and purses her lips to the side, "I don't know…" Fingering her necklace she smiles as she jokes to change the subject, "You know you wear more jewelry than I do?" He promptly throws a handful of sand at her bronzing legs.

"Do you want to _go_ to a party?"

"And what, pretend that it's for me?"

He makes a face at her; sometimes she says the strangest things. He continues, though to him it should have been obvious, "And have a good time."

"_Is_ there a party tonight?"

He shrugs. "It's summer."

"So, there's automatically a party?"

He shrugs again. "Wanna?"

Angela's squints one eye, "Sharon's supposed –"

"She can come." This gives Angela pause.

"You want to go to a party with Sharon Chirsky?"

"I wanna hang with you - on your birthday. _ I don't mind Sharon."

Smiling, "You don't?" Her dubiety amuses him.

"You going in?"

Shielding her eyes she looks out to the water, "Yep."

…

That evening, Sharon, Angela and Jordan enter the backyard of a house party. The yard, lit with colored string lights, is crowded with people. Music blares from speakers sitting on the ledge of an open upstairs window. Sharon leans in in order to be heard, "So, who's party is this?"

Jordan answers while he surveys the scene, "Klepper." The girls don't know the name. "Uh, Lucas Klepper. You know, the guy who—" Both girls shake their heads.

"No." They look around as Jordan grabs three beers. Jordan pops the lids, handing one to Sharon, and pausing before handing one to Angela; she too's not sure she wants it, but momentarily she accepts it. Jordan glances at her as he drinks his, then once more scans the party. Offhandedly he mentions, "I called Brian." Sharon laughs.

Incredulous, Angela questions him, "You did?"

Jordan shrugs. "He's cool. And Tino likes him. Plus, he's gotta get out more."

Sharon mocks emphatic enthusiasm, "Aw, Krakow outreach." Angela and she laugh.

Jordan looks at them in surprise. "You two are mean." His hand in her hair at the nape of her neck, he kisses the side of Angela's head, then walks into the party.

Sharon watches him leave, "I hate when he's sweet." Angela rolls her eyes. "'Cuz, when he's sweet—"

Eyeing her best friend wryly, "It makes it hard to continuously, relentlessly, and unforgivingly hate him."

Shooting Angela her sassy and knowing look, Sharon concedes, "Something like that."

"He's not bad."

"He likes _Brian Krakow_."

"_We_ like Brian Krakow. Now."

Reluctantly admitting it, "I don't, _hate_, the necklace." Angela laughs. "So, what do you do at these things?"

"You go to parties."

"Not, 'Jordan Catalano and company' parties." Angela chuckles.

Taking a step off the deck further into the yard, she takes on the demeanor of a seasoned, good-natured tour guide. "Well, I chit-chat a little, with people who only know me as Jordan's girlfriend; walk around a bit; wait for decent music; then hang out with Jordan. Oh, and be on the look out for stage divers. Don't ask."

"Doesn't sound all that crazy."

Considering, "I've never seen him anything but mellow. _ Mostly." The girls observe as a guy runs past them and tackles another guy to the ground. It's unclear whether this is a friendly or hostile act. Sharon and Angela walk past, detached and unfazed. "They're not all like that."

Sharon sips from her drink as they walk on. "I'm assuming he kisses with more enthusiasm than he does anything else." Angela chuckles.

* * *

_Posted 9/2/12_


	26. 10 to 1 She Smacks You

**No particular point in the timeline...**

Jordan's leaning back in his chair, tilting on its back legs as he watches Tino get his first tattoo. On his right inner forearm is going a vintage-inspired '_Mom_' and surrounding design. "She's not gonna like it," he says.

With minimal movement Tino looks back at Jordan, "_That's_ 'cuz she's gonna _love_ it."

"I don't think so."

He blinks for a second in pain, "Recognize: _Ms._ Nancy Mourlot is a great admirer of my finely tuned sense of irony."

Jordan's not at all convinced, "10 to 1 she smacks you."

* * *

Having come home, Tino walks past his mother who stands leaning back against the kitchen counter reading _Breakfast of Champions_, a Bloody Mary beside her. Something catches her eye as he passes by, and she lowers her book halfway. "Wait a minute." Tino stops, she beckons with the book for him to approach. She's clearly seen something, so he back steps and offers her his forearm. Eyeing the large bandage, she begins the interrogation, "So, what's this? You, donate an obscene amount of blood?"

Tino winks at her, "Uh, huh, giving for the better good. I'ma card-carrying lifesaver."

She takes his arm, looks him in the eye, and gingerly pulls back the gauze; Tino winces just slightly as she does so. "Jesus Christ." There are small traces of blood on the tattoo that spans up maybe five inches of his arm, three inches across. '_MOM_' is written in a banner crossing before a red heart and held in the beak of a red and yellow sparrow, flanked with a flower and greenery.

He looks at her blankly, "What?"

"What told you this was a good idea?"

Taking a guess, "My adolescent-addled head?" Standing a couple inches above his mother he beams at her, "And my adoration for my dear ol' mum."

Staring him down, "I am not okay with this."

Replacing his bandage, he pretends to think about it: "Well, I don't think it will rub off…"

It's just occurred to her that he's not eighteen; "Wait a minute; where'd you get this done? I did not give my permission for this."

Wagging his eyebrows at her, "Remember that magical ID card…?" She shakes her head; she knew it was a bad idea to let him keep that. He's looking straight at her as he reaches for her glass and lifts it to his lips. Her eyes widen, she does not blink – _he had better not_. He does; ever so slowly to build the anticipation.

She exhales in frustration, running her fingers through her hair. "What am I going to do with you?"

Taking a stab at it, "Get me some antibacterial soap?"

Not impressed with him, wanting the whole story, "You do this on your own?"

Breezily, "Well, it was me, and then there was the artist." She makes a face – no one who'd do this to her kid's arm qualifies as an artist. "Catalano was there."

"He struck by this insanity too?"

Making a formal report to his mother's interrogation, "He is still undecorated." Affecting pity and flattery simultaneously, Tino says, "'Cuz…his mother's not as keen as mine." Handing her back her drink, he adds offhandedly, "But I think '_Tino's Mom_' tats are 'bout to blow up."

Not getting distracted, she cocks her head and queries, "We on a slippery slope now? You got one, you got twenty?"

Purposefully glib, "Gotta save up again first."

Moving on as what's done is done, "You better keep that thing clean - I'm not watching that arm of yours rot away and fall off."

Tino makes a face mock alarm, "No one said that could happen."

She rolls her eyes, and then tenderly touches her inner wrist to his forehead to feel for a fever. "You feel okay?"

He purses his lips and slowly nods, then grins at her. "Love you Mommy."

"You want a Tylenol? "

Grinning, "I'll take a tequila."

Dryly, "I'll get right on that."

* * *

_Posted 9/8/12_


	27. So, this is what they mean, by

**Vignettes (within vignettes) of Angela and Jordan dating (all separate moments) ...**

* * *

Angela and others are hanging out in the loft while the band practices. Tino's back in, mostly, but for the time he's refusing to front, leaving Jordan still at the mic. While the band plays, the lyrics of the song Jordan's singing, "I'm Not Sayin,'" catch Angela's attention. She lowers her book and listens. Afterwards, when the guys are tending to their gear - tuning, and swapping out instruments, Angela approaches Jordan.

"What was that song?"

Messing with his guitar, he glances up at her through his hanging hair, but his eyes are lowered again, focussing on his task, when he answers, "Velvet Underground."

"Actually," Marco interjects from behind as he untangles his amp cord, "I think it's just Nico."

Angela hadn't meant whose song it was; she didn't care who wrote it. "Who chose that one to play?" Jordan shrugs and turns to mess with his amp.

"'I'm not saying I'll be true'?" She's repeating the lyrics in mild but disgusted disbelief.

He looks at her. "Angela. It's a song." He's said it so plainly he means for her to feel foolish.

Eyeing him, Angela decides what to and what not to say; she settles on irony and a false half-smile, "Uplifting." Jordan smirks and moves around her, continuing with messing with his equipment. Watching him, Angela posits, "Why don't you just sing 'I hate you, I hate you, stupid girl who likes me'." Jordan looks at her.

"'Cuz," he says, "not everything's about you." This stops her. Angela's eyes are active as she processes and thinks about this. Jordan takes this in. "What?"

Still thinking, she purses her lips to one side; Jordan waits. "Okay," she says eventually. He looks at her, kind of rolls his eyes, laughs slightly, then turns away. Frustrated, Angela lightly shoves his back as he does, he laughs, turns, and playfully grabs ahold her head as though he'd crush it.

"Go away," he play threatens her. Angela smiles, rolls her eyes, and returns to the sofa.

Marco chimes in again, "That was beautiful."

Embarrassed, Jordan and Angela smile it off. "Shut up," Jordan tells him. Walking as he plays, Jordan strums the intro to 'I got a girl" by Tripping Daisy.

_Posted 9/23/12_

* * *

Prompted by flickering headlights in the dark suburban night outside her bedroom window and something small crashing against the windowpane, Angela quietly descends the stairs and ever so carefully opens the Chase's backdoor. Outside in the dim yellow light of the street lamp sits a hunched figure on the low concrete step. Though it is dark and it's only his back she sees, still she sees something is off. Angela whispers, "_Jordan_." In a delayed reaction he turns toward her, his eyes not quite focussed. He's drunk. "_You drove here_?"

Jordan steadies himself as he rises and passes by her into the house. "Tino."

Angela follows, silently shutting the door then tugs him away from the stairwell where they're more likely to be heard by her parents. Once in the kitchen he stands, lumbering over her, grinning a little dumbly. He moves in to kiss her but she pushes him away. Unmoved by his searching lips and relentlessly seductive glances, she confronts him incredulously, "Tino thought it would be a good idea to drive you _here,_ to my _parents'_ house, at _night_, when you're _drunk_? _ Was _he_ drunk?"

"There a right answer to that?" His blue eyes have not released hers and so she looks away. Angela is not in the mood to be won over surreptitiously by a drunken boy who really should know better. He isn't there to be mothered, but it's what ends up happening when he's too far gone, and she resents him for it and he in turn resents her. Early on, when he was just barely hers and any kind of attention was welcomed and special, she would have fallen for such a sloppy seduction; but not now. Jordan can drink all he likes, but he's got to look out for himself, and leave her out of it. Because needing her when he's sober and needing her when he's not are two different things she's learned, and the difference can be cruel. And being a friend does not mean being a babysitter, and she's already gone through that before. _But what is the use of steely rigidity when he's already there?_

Angela exhales, "Well; what now? You don't have a car." Jordan straightens up and staring her in the eyes he pulls her to him. She does not yield. "Seriously."

"Seriously," he breathily insists, pulling her in closer, refusing to let her resist his efforts to kiss her. Angela relents and he does kiss her. Wantonly.

She pulls away and tries to take a step back as she attempts to reason with him, "You need to call somebody." In answer he only stares at her intently, though his eyes cannot quite focus. His hands are in her hair, and he grips her tighter as he kisses her again.

Breaking away just long enough to whisper into her forehead, Jordan tells her, "Relax. I'll walk." He can feel her in his arms, relinquishing just a little. He tightens his grip. "Come're." Jordan backs into the kitchen counter, pulling her with him, and holding her jaw, cupping her face, he kisses her. And he does not stop for some time.

_Posted 1/20/13_

* * *

_**Will slowly be updated with other scenes...**_


	28. On the Market? Post Breakup

_******Scenes occurring not too long after Jordan and Angela have broken up...**_

(_Newly added:_)

Angela drives to Jordan's house. It's been almost a week since the break up and she's barely seen him. He cut two days of school, which she took to be for her benefit, and afterwards there has been one head nod, one other moment of brief eye contact, and a whole lot of side-routes through hallways to avoid the regular run-ins. _Thankfully they have no common classes this term_. She doesn't want to be here, at his house, knocking on his door, showing up uninvited days after he ended things, but she can't keep herself from doing so. Though in some ways the ending had been looming for some time, on the whole she had been utterly unprepared for it and it hasn't gotten better as the days pass. And so, Angela Chase lifts her hand, hesitates once more, and knocks on Jordan Catalano's door. Though it takes longer than it should for such a small house as his and this late in the day on a Saturday, eventually the door swings open, and there stands a disheveled looking Jordan, shirt off, barefoot, no doubt in recovery from the past night's exploits. They stand there a bit, he in the doorway towering over her, she on the porch feeling less than sure-footed, looking at one another before anyone says anything.

"Hi," he finally says. Angela smiles a tight lipped smile. After a beat he opens the door wider, holding it for her in place of actually asking her in. After yet another pause she steps past him into the living room. Jordan shuffles past her, letting the screen door slam and leaving the front door ajar. Wordlessly he rummages a bit till he finds a shirt. Pulling it on, he turns back to face her. "So. What's up?" Angela shrugs. _It's a hard thing to verbalize._

"I heard you played well the other night." Jordan doesn't bother to register a response because she's clearly not there to discuss Residue gigs and is only working up to whatever it is she really has come to say. He waits. She glances at him "… I just, it felt weird – not talking. I mean, I know that's how this works, and we don't have to be friends or anything– It just felt like…" She regroups, "I wanted to actually say goodbye." Angela looks at him, eyebrows slightly raised, checking to see if she's totally embarrassing herself. His face isn't registering any specific response, which she knows to take as a sign she's not on a limb. But she does not return to her purpose and instead shifts gears, "So, Rickie says you and Brian Krakow have been hanging out some. _ I wouldn't have believed that last year." He's giving her nothing and his silence forces her back on subject "… So, how does this work?" His eyes indicate he needs a bit more context. Angela gestures as she struggles to clarify; "It feels like I'm s'posed to forget everything I know about you – like I have to pretend there was never anything between us."

"You don't have to pretend."

"You know what I mean. All this _stuff_ is out of bounds now."

"Look," Jordan gestures, "I don't know, just–"

"Just," she finishes, more disheartened than she just was, "'move on.'" Jordan loses steam and she speaks as though she's contiunung a thought she'd already voiced, "'Cuz, it's not like it's just you that is gone, one person – everything seems changed. Everything is different." He nods. Jordan doesn't want to indulge her but he doesn't want to be a bastard about it either. He can't fix it, anyways he's not going to; the best he can do is patiently wait her out till she's okay to leave. Anyway, he'd kind of figured just once was too clean a break. "You got Sharon an' Vasquez. And Brain. Ya still got Tino." Angela rolls her eyes. If the words _dependable_ and _Tino_ could ever be used in a sentence together, it would be in regards to Jordan. They're devoted to one another in their way, and she doesn't see an ex-girlfriend factoring in all that well. "He still likes you."

"Right; it's just you who doesn't."

"Stop." She doesn't need to be told to stop, she knew already it was a cheap shot and one she didn't even completely mean. She had not come there for self-pity.

She moves on: "So we just…?"

Noncommittally Jordan shrugs and swings his shoulder at her, "We be _us_, you and me; just not–"

"'_You and me_.'"

"Right."

Her eyes flit as she thinks things over, as she takes in his house for most likely the last time, as she's alone with him for probably the last time, as she feels his eyes on her, passively observing her with removed curiousity as he had done so many many times before, now perhaps also for the last time; then she smiles bleakly and speaks, "Sounds easy enough."

And Jordan says one of the more generous things he's ever said to her: "It won't be easy."_ No._ She gives him one more tight-lipped smile and opens the screen door. Jordan moves in, leaning his weight on the knob of the front door, standing tall and solid, so near beside her. "See you around."

"Sure." She exits the house and before she's descended the porch steps to the cracked and weedy walkway, she hears it: the silent click of the Catalano door shutting behind her.

_Posted 1/20/13_

* * *

(_Original post:_)

**A few days, at least, have passed...**

Using the backdoor, Jordan let's himself into Tino's place, and passes through the house, heading towards the stairs. Tino's mother spots him from the laundry room and calls out to him. "Jordan!" Jordan pauses, "Get in here a minute." He turns back, in her direction. "What's this I heard about Angela?" Jordan doesn't look too anxious to talk about it. "What happened?"

"Nuthin'. We broke up."

Concerned, she thought Jordan had been so happy. "Why?"

Going on offense, "What, we're no allowed to break up?"

She's still on his side, "You are."

Briefly looking at her before he diverts his eye contact again, and levels with her, "It just got too…"

Empathetic, but not sympathetic, "You okay?"

Tino interrupts them as he strides into the room. Speaking with authority, Tino's taking charge of this exchange, "He's fine. He's great. He's well-adjusted. He's moving on. But not in a cold-hearted bastardy kind of way. He's good. Angela Chase is good. Everything is good. You didn't expect them to get married did you?"

"I would have liked to have _met_ her."

Glibly, "Well, now it's over, so there's no point. We're leaving."

"He just got here."

Standing behind her, Tino drapes his arms over his mother's shoulders, slouching to hang a bit on her, and talking into her ear but keeping his eyes on Jordan, Tino explains, "Mommy, in his newly single state, the Cat Man shouldn't be around such a pretty girl." He pats her cheeks. He straightens up, grabs his jacket, pushes Jordan into a turn down the hall, "Sire." Tino calls out before the door slams behind him, "Don't wait up."

* * *

**A few weeks, at least, have passed...**

Jordan and a buddy of his are at his place, working on their cars. Jordan has somewhat recently broken up with Angela, after a little less then a year of going out. It was time to do it and he's glad it's done, and Jordan never says anything about it. Not to his crowd, not to Shane, and not even to Tino. But when Paul breaks their silence with, "I'm asking her out," there was no doubt who that 'her' was.

"No, you're not."

Ducking down to tighten something, "Yeah I am."

Jordan stops. He broke up with Angela. He'd wanted to do it. Since then, he hadn't really regretted it, and after all that time, he was enjoying not being part of a permanent twosome. But being back in the game didn't put her on the market. Not this market. Yeah, she can do what she wants - they both could - that was the whole point. But not with Paul. Not with anyone she'd met through him. Not with someone he drank beers with, shot pool with, fixed up cars with. "Why?"

"I like her."

"Why?"

Gesturing with the cigarette he's lighting, "And I'm telling her you said that."

Almost letting it go, Jordan reaches for the socket wrench and then stops what he's doing, straightens, and looks his friend dead on, "Why're you doin' this?"

"You think you're the only one who sees something in her worth liking? _ Can I tell her you said that, too?"

"This is very uncool."

"Have you or have you not been with one or more girls since breaking up?" He register's Jordan's expression as confirmation. "It's official then and that makes her fair game."

"She won't say yes."

"You _hope_ she won't say yes."

_Posted 9/1/12_

* * *

(_Newly added:_)

In school in the passing weeks when they walk past each other he keeps his word – there's not pretending, he nods to say 'hey' and it's all very civil. Today he actually says it, "Hey." And there's a slight absent smile to go along with it. And all over again Angela is destroyed.

_'That's the thing about Jordan_,' she thinks as she watches him head down the main hallway. '_He isn't going to stop knowing a person after he breaks up with you. He can be relied on not to play other people's games. Only, I'm not supposed to rely on him for anything anymore. And how do you break up with someone you're going to see as you go to your locker three times a day? It's amazing that anyone survives dating in high school. Or,'_ she pauses,_ 'I'm hoping they do.'_

To be fair, admittedly Jordan hadn't dropped her. She did feel dumped on – _What a fitting expression though –_ but being honest, she knew she wasn't thrown away. It was something more akin to being filed away. He hadn't erased her from his life, she was just no longer on the shelves. Though that didn't stop the feeling that his whole world, which, for some time had partially been a piece of hers, had shut her out. In truth, very little changed. Angela had never been a fixture anywhere in his actual life, but she did have some presence in it, because her absence from it now is something she feels. He, and everything that came with him into her life was gone. The loss was almost palpable.

And still, heartbreakingly, though Jordan's gone, he's not gone. He's still right there across the hallway, in the parking lot, and under the bleachers – just, so unreachable now.

...

When next she sees him alone they're passing by each other mid-period in the admin. office, he on his period as an office runner, she returning to class after a brief meeting with her academic counselor. They reach the exit in unison, and in unison both stop to allow the other to pass. At Jordan's prompting she exits into the hallway and he follows. After three steps it is clear that they are headed in the same direction. Jordan clears his throat, "Hey."

"Hey."

"... How's it going?" Absently he pulls down a flyer as he passes; behind them it drifts and fluters to the linoleum floor, echoing loudly as the corridor is silent excepting the sounds of their steps. He turns to her to say something more but she cuts him off.

"Don't." He doesn't. "It's just–" Angela turns to him, and it's put them closer than either of them had planned. Standing there in the empty hallway – the same one he'd so epically crossed more than a year before and first took her by the hand – she looks up at him, open, like she used to and speaks earnestly, "I'm just going to have to be awful to you for awhile."

He looks at her silently, then nods. "Alright."

* * *

By chance Tino's run into Angela at Vertigo coffee house where she's gone to study and seeing her he's pulled up a chair and now sits across from her, sipping his double espresso. He leans in, barely-curtailed mischief in his eyes, "We could sleep together."

Angela does not shy away from his gaze but answers unflinchingly, "No. we couldn't."

"We _could,_" he counters, enjoying playing devil's advocate. "You're not together anymore."

"You don't mean this."

"He slept with your best friend," Tino hazards to remind her, but Angela is unmoved.

"And yours." She returns to her textbook, "That was forever ago." Angela can feel his eyes on her, not letting the subject drop. So Angela sets down her pen straightens up, looks him in the eye and leans back with unmitigated assurance, "You wouldn't do it."

Tino knows full well he wouldn't, as he knows she knows it too, but he relishes a challenge and takes her unflappable confidence as just that, so he goes to work at making his case. "You're beautiful." That he means.

"You love him."

"Love doesn't have to factor in," he winks. Tino's always played the rogue role well. "And," he changes gears, "you're assuming he still loves you; that's the only reason he'd care."

She still isn't thrown. "He'd care; you know it, and none of this is really happening." Vindicated in whatever game he was playing, Tino smirks, and leans back in his wooden café chair.

"I know."

"What? Is that some weird ex-girlfriend test?"

"It mighta been, if you were somebody else."

"Sorry?"

"Com'on man," Tino waves her off, "everyone's still swallowing you slept with _Jordan_; you'd never just sleep with his friend."

"It would never happen anyway." His interest piqued, Tino cocks a brow at her. "You're too cool for me, I can't keep up."

"Aw," Tino mocks. Out of nowhere he moves in and kisses her anyway. And while Angela doesn't exactly kiss him back, she is passively open to him, and the kiss, while not terribly long lasting is intimate and somehow true. There's something magical about a first kiss, even one that is unsolicited and never should have happened, and Tino has his own magic in spades. She does not move away but allows her lips to linger as his, warm, soft and teasing, part hers, melding and caressing. His mouth is bitter from the dark roast, but rather than distasteful it is exotic and alluringly adult and unknown. There is a slip of tonge, just a hint of what this kiss could but never would be. It is a good kiss, bold and tempting but restrained. An excellent first kiss and unrivaled among all the kisses of her life that would never be followed by another.

He moves away slowly, watching as her eyes flutter open. She is pretty. Beautiful really. But he feels nothing towards her but collegial admiration for the surprise of her not pushing him off but taking it, and afterwards, percevably unmoved, staring him down as recompense. He would have enjoyed a slap for the drama of it, but he was always a champion of Angela Chase's class and basks now in the knowlege that even then it did not waiver. Still incredibly close to her face he winks at her. "Just kidding."

"You're hilarious," she responds dryly. Tino laughs and withdraws from her personal space.

Once again leaning back in his chair, he grins unrepentantly at Angela, "Had to be done. Never want the ex to be the last one you've kissed. Plus," he points his finger at her, "now you've got a secret on him." Tino wags his brows jauntily before he takes on a semi-earnest tone, "Remember, you're not together, there's very little you still owe him." Angela doesn't know what her response is, and he takes the look of unspoken bafflement as his cue to leave on a high point. He rises and tips his nonexistent hat, "My lady."

* * *

At five past eleven the filling station closes. The garage has been closed since six, but there were two of them working the register and the pumps since then. Jordan thinks full service is ridiculous, but the occasional tip wasn't bad, and starting the night with enough cash for a fresh pack of smokes was more than what Tino or Shane could say for their respective jobs. Pulling on his corduroy jacket, Jordan follows Gary out the double-hinged door, then waits as his buddy locks up for the night.

Trashing the plastic packaging, Jordan packs his cigarettes and offers the newly opened pack. Gary takes one and allows Jordan to light him up, after which Jordan lights his own. "See ya later," Jordan exhales, "have a good night."

"Yeah," Gary nods, dropping his board on the concrete and stepping onto the deck. "Late." Gary pushes off and skates down the dark street.

Turning towards his car, Jordan doesn't skip a beat when he spots Angela Chase standing on the curb, waiting for him. They haven't spoken in a while. He hadn't even seen her for – a while. Her hair was blonder. He wasn't sure if this was her true color or just a different color she had chosen. He wasn't sure if he cared. He wasn't sure what he felt seeing her. But the ambivalence didn't register in his stride or his demeanor; outwardly, there was no hesitation. Casually he tugs on her sleeve as he passes by and wordlessly she follows him to his car. For old times he opens the passenger door for her, then walks round to his, which has already been unlocked for him. It feels familiar, all this. Not right. Not something that has been missing. Just, familiar. Routine. But, that's why it'd ended in the first place. Routine gets old, 'cuz, it's a sign _you_ are old.

There's not an abundance of eye contact. It's not being avoided, but no glance is held half as long as momentarily. Jordan turns the keys in the ignition, but only to start the heater, he does not start the engine.

"Am I keeping you from something?"

He looks at her with benign incredulity, "You're gonna leave?" He looks at her, "What's up?"

She shakes her head but he doesn't stop awaiting an answer. "Nothing."

"'Nothing'? At eleven o'clock?" He rolls down his window and exhales, flicking the still-lit cigarette an impressive distance across the lot.

"Thought you weren't supposed to smoke at gas stations."

Jordan half chuckles. "You think this whole thing's gonna blow up?"

Not liking the implications she ignores him. "You have plans?"

"Devin Nitchal's got something going at his place." She nods. He scratches his jaw as he deliberates; "You wanna come?" He turns to look at her. Angela bites her lower lip to the side, _Isn't this why she'd come?_

"Sure."

...

At Devin's Jordan and Angela Chase are spotted standing close, touching hands, leaning in to converse and smile. There are cups in their hands and alcohol on their lips. At one point in the evening they are spotted, hand in hand, making their way down a hallway and through a door that shuts behind them. Looking on, Nate turns to Joey, "There they go again."

Joey shakes his head and walks away, "There's gotta be a twelve step program for this."

* * *

It didn't work out – the reconciliation. It lasted for a week, maybe two, but that was it. Though Angela can still hear Jordan's words, hot and guttural against her ear, "_God, I fucking love you_" spoken as he took her in the backseat of her car – words she'd feared she'd never hear again from him – his breath warm against her skin, his teeth grazing her neck, her shoulder, his strong hands so familiar with her and her self. She wanted it. She wanted him and she wanted it all, but In the end he had been right all along, meaning that it wasn't right, not anymore. Things had changed, and passions rekindled from distance and longing was a gamble that hadn't paid off. And they split up agian. He saw her point but was nonetheless pissed. He'd handled it well the first time, but if it wasn't going to turn out any differently (more closer to the truth, _worse_), then why start it up again? This time they really were out of each other's lives.

On an awkward first not-exactly-a-date 'thing', Angela enters a cafe with Chris, a boy she knows from her US history class. Unbeknownst to her, Residue is playing. Upon the realization she stops, but it's too late and Jordan spots her, and the guy she's following. Despite being two bars into a new song, Jordan strikes his guitar with a loud, jarring effect and restarts with a new song. The rest of the band is thrown, but recognizing the song they save face soon enough and pick up The Replacements' "Unsatisfied." As he sings, Jordan mostly ignores Angela, but occasionally he casts caustic sidelong glances in her direction.

"_Look me in the eye / Then, tell me that I'm satisfied / Was you satisfied? / Look me in the eye / Then, tell me that I'm satisfied / Hey, are you satisfied?_"

She'd leave but it seems too messy and difficult to explain to the boy she's with who hardly knows her aside from class. Stuck, Angela tries to avoid Jordan's looks and to tune out the lyrics, focusing her attention instead on her date.

"_Everything goes / Well, anything goes all of the time / Everything you dream of / Is right in front of you / And everything is a lie and liberty is a lie / Look me in the eye / And tell me that I'm satisfied_."

He sounds like he hates her, he's practically spitting the the words. This song is an accusation, unfairly flung upon her, charging her for things that were not her doing and were not his fault. She looks away, and tries to smile her way through a stunted conversation with Chris, The Boy From Class.

_"Look me in the eye ... I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied / I'm so dissatisfied / I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied..."_

As the imputation in the guise of a song continues, Jordan's buddy Laurence spots her and moves in beside her, leaning in closely to be heard over Jordan's raucous retribution, "Angela! Diggn' the song?" She looks at him, then takes hold history kid's wrist and moves through the crowd towards the nearest exit.

"I need to get out of here."

_Posted 1/20/13_


	29. Whudda'ya think?

**This is after Angela and Jordan have been broken up for months (still her junior year) … With time, distance, and – on his part especially ****–** much enjoyed freedom, they've gotten past any bitterness and resentment. Now between them is mostly quiet neutrality. 

**On a whim, this night he's stopped by to say 'hi'; they are downstairs by themselves.**

Angela looks him over, as he looks about the room and at her. "How are you?"

Wry grin, "Good." She nods, knowingly. Angela half smiles to herself - no matter how small, and innocuous a thing she says, Jordan still has the ability to, and maybe without even completely meaning to, render everything she says as foolish or inert. She felt ever a mocking air in his lack of intercourse. In their spans of intimacy, she knew not to let it sting, but now, it was all a little more ambiguous.

"Good."

"What've you been up to?" She shrugs and gives him a closed lip smile. "Seeing anybody?"

Her eyes narrow, not unkindly, "Is that why you're here?"

He laughs, "No."

Weighing his answer, she didn't like to give this information out; not when she well knew nothing was tied to the asking of it. Jordan didn't ask out of hope that she wasn't, not even out of hope that she was. What's more, he hadn't even asked just to ask. Jordan Catalano asked her this question – most likely already knowing the answer – to watch her squirm. Maybe not exactly that, but, she knew it cost him nothing to hear the answer, and so she was never pleased to share it. Watching him casually awaiting her answer, "Not right now."

Never taking his eyes off her, "Did, uh, did Paul ever ask you out?" In response, Angela only makes amused, big eyes at him. "Did he? He said he was going to."

"He might of hinted at something." Her nonchalance in this regard is not an act. She is not teasing him. For one thing, it wouldn't work.

Jordan presses, still breezy, "He said he was gonna ask, not hint."

"That might have happened too."

"'Dya go?" Angela purses her lips.

"Jordan." She says his name so rarely now, hardly ever; the utterance of it carries weight – a reasoned call for civility and mutual appreciation.

His assurance in the form of an airy, "I don't care," elicits a good-natured scoff from her.

"Oh, I _know_ you don't."

Stifling his grin, "So?"

Biting her lips together, really taking her time to look at him, "I owe you that?" He only shrugs, and grins at her, challenging her to answer. "You gonna list everyone you've been out with?" she queries dubiously.

Jordan doesn't suppress the swagger, looking at her over the thumbnail he's biting. "You interested?"

Wry head tilt, "This visit over yet?"

Jordan breaks his eye contact and blithely moves past her, venturing further into the room. "It's okay; I know you didn't." Angela furrows her brows in consternation; then, with a wry smile, shakes her head at him. He smiles at her, "Whut?"

"Nothing. Just - how the mighty have fallen. Jordan Catalano playing cheap head games: Do you even know yourself." He had to give her that, and he grunts appreciatively.

Swinging a shoulder in her direction as he takes in the residual smile lingering on her face, "You got big plans tonight?"

With a sardonic smile, "Oh yeah."

"So. Can I hang?"

She looks at him, considering, then nods decidedly and shoots him a slight, tight-lipped smile. "Sure." Jordan nods at her and drops into an arm chair in the Chase's living room.

Angela, still standing, twists her arms, and pivots one foot in place, looking around the room, and then at him, "So." Jordan smirks at her. It isn't that Jordan's never uneasy, never off his game or out of his element, but she's so easy. She gives him a look; "You can't be doing that all night."

Tauntingly blasé, "Whatever."

Angela moves around the sofa and takes a seat, "So, how's Charlotte Birnbaum?'

He looks up at her through his hair and eyebrows, smirking again. He clears his throat. "She's good."

Smirking right back at him, "Oh good."

"Keeping tabs?"

Angela's face crinkles into her sassy face, intending to serve Jordan a little reality, "Only so much as we live in the same world. And that I'm not deaf and blind."

Taking pleasure in asking, but knowing this is all more a game than in earnest, "Wishin' you were?"

Dryly, "Oh, desperately; I'm all torn up about it." Jordan chuckles. Angela Chase always makes him laugh. When she's not making him want to tear his hair out.

Leaning back in his chair, he tilts his head affectionately, nods a smile at her, and enjoys their exchange, "She's good."

Playful or not, it's enough about the current girl, "Got it."

He watches her as he says this next bit, "She doesn't like you."

She wasn't expecting this and she's legitimately bothered. "Me? Why not?"

Still watching, "Says you're fake."

Indignant now, "'Fake'?" Jordan chuckles, gratified that this bit of information proved to be as amusing as he'd expected it. "Based on what?" Having only shared this to elicit a reaction, Jordan merely shrugs. Angela scoffs.

Gesturing with the hand he'd been resting his head on, not taking any of it seriously, "What do you care?"

Not angry, but frustrated, and a touch defensive, her pitch rises, "Wull, what is she basing this on?"

He shrugs. He doesn't have all the information, and he hadn't thought he was launching an epic inquisition on the subject. "She doesn't like you."

"But, because of you, right?" she reasons.

"Don't think so."

Angela's stumped - she can't move past it. "_You_ don't think I'm fake?" He laughs at her for taking it to heart; obviously he doesn't think she's fake.

"No."

"Have you told her that?"

Grinning at her, "Didn't see an advantage in that." Angela flashes him a face.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, no sweat."

They look at each other. … What is there to say?…

She looks around the room. "Movie?"

"You ever watch your dad's copy of _Unforgiven_?" Angela purses her lips to the side and shakes her head. Foregone conclusion - "Let's do it."

…

Later, watching the film in the dark, she's sitting, propped against one end of the sofa, her knees up, feet near the center cushion, her toes less than an inch away from Jordan, now also sitting on the sofa. They're comfortable, but noticeably not touching, resulting in a slight, self-conscious tension.

Jordan rises and exits to the restroom. Upon his return, rather than reclaiming his seat, he taps Angela to scooch, and takes the position between her and the sofa end. Now he sits with one arm extended on the sofa arm, and the other spread across the back of the sofa, above Angela. Gradually, his arm's around her shoulder; at first gingerly, and then actually. The weight of his arm stands her hair on end, and she finds herself unable to focus on the film, though his eyes never seem to stray from the screen. It seems agreed upon that their new proximity is not to be commented on or acknowledged, which only serves to heighten the tension; Angela's posture is rigid. Absently, Jordan's hand tugs on a lock of her hair. Angela strains the limits of her peripheral vision to try to steal a glimpse of him. She wants to say something. To stop it? To analyze it? To encourage it? Something tells her acknowledging it would mean she wasn't playing by the right rules, and the 'game' would end. She wasn't yet sure if she was opposed to such precepts. She reasoned with herself - all the while Jordan still playing with her hair - if it can't be recognized as happening, it probably shouldn't happen. But that didn't stop the force field magnetism drawing her in. She knew this feeling. Electric. Raw with anticipation. She hadn't felt it for so long; it was therefore hard to dismiss. All it would take was a cough, a shift of a shoulder, a hair tuck, and it would all dissipate, but she couldn't do it. She waited. Aching. … Nobody moved. … She wondered if he knew what he was doing - the effect he was having on her. Yes. He knew what he was doing. Jordan, ever self-possessed, knew what he could do. He turned her head ever so slightly towards himself; he leaned in. He could see her, her lips. She wondered if she was meant to keep 'watching' the screen, or if the jig was up.

Barely more than a whisper, "Hey."

Searching in his eyes, "Hey."

"Whudda'ya think?"

She's slightly puzzled - did he mean the movie, or in a bigger sense? "About the movie? Honestly, I was having a little trouble concentrating." Pleased, Jordan lightly smacks his lips in a slight smile. His eyes have not left hers. She tilts her head, recalibrating the eye contact. "I know what you're doing."

Smiling, "What am I doing?"

Shifting into her sass face, "You know."

His voice is low; his delivery is slow. "I'm not doing anything." He moves imperceptibly closer. Splitting his intense focus between her and her lips.

"You-"

"Shh." Jordan opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out; his gaze intensifies. He has a finger on her lips. They're moving towards each other by fractions. Her gaze, stealing occasional glimpses of his lips, stays wide and open, and in avoidance Jordan focuses only on her lips. Somehow, without ever any perceivable movement, he is now right before her, his lips hovering just before hers. The inertia is driving her mad; the stillness juxtaposed with the electric voltage coursing through her leaves her beyond frustration. At this moment she wants action, of any kind. She'll kiss him just to break the tension, regardless of the inevitable fallout. Her lips break apart, releasing a small gust of warm breath. Jordan's lips are on hers, brushing rather than kissing. The space between her lips widens, searching for his, for contact she can feel, for satisfaction. He pulls away slightly, and involuntarily her lips have made up the difference, seeking his.

Her eyes fluttering closed, he studies her. He wants her to kiss him. She does, but lightly; the tension still builds. He feels the trace of her tongue and it's over, he's done for, and he lunges in, powerfully kissing her, holding her head to him, as the force of his kiss pushes it back. She reciprocates, twisting towards him, then sitting up on her knees, hands in his hair, on his face. He pulls her closer, onto him, then leans into her, bending her backwards, his arm wrapped tightly round her waist, and the other grasping the nape of her neck. When she seems unsteady he straightens, leaning back into the cushions, holding her tightly to him. Angela again repositions, her knees on either side of his hips, but she breaks away from their kiss, pulling back, and looks at him.

"What is this?" His mouth still open, Jordan shakes his head silently, his hands still tightly holding her waist. "What about Charlotte?"

"Now she really won't like you." Angela's sass face returns as this wasn't any kind of an answer. He tries again. "It isn't serious."

Searching his face, "Is this why you came here? "

"I already said 'no'."

Matter-of-factly, "I don't believe you."

"What would the difference be?"

Considering, "I don't know…"

"Angela." Somehow, when Jordan Catalano says her name, it carries with it more weight than any other time it's spoken. She refocuses her attention on him. _ He doesn't know what to say. So, he says the truth. "I want you."

His frankness at this moment surprises her, but endears him to her. Her eyes move quickly, studying him; she's thinking so many things at once. He reaches and cups her face with his palm. His hand holds rather than caresses her; he drags it from her face to her neck, her collarbone and sternum. There's no denying the rapid pounding of her heart. She exhales, rolling her eyes, and Jordan pulls her in. Their passion resumes.

…

Angela is beneath Jordan on the sofa – both still fully clothed - her legs wrapped around him as he presses into her; she in turn lifts her hips to meet him. The barriers between them are driving Jordan to distraction, and he cannot decide if their actions provide some minimal relief or only further compound his frustration. The force of pressure against Angela is somewhat painful, but she pulls him closer.

…

Jordan shifts his head to look at her, "I should go."

"_ Okay."

Rising, pulling on his jacket, "See you around?"

Still on the couch, she straightens up a little and pulls her left leg to her. She nods, "Mm, hm."

Deftly readjusting his pants, "Feel thirteen again." She chuckles, leaning her forehead against her hand, arm propped on the sofa back. "You still totally turn me on."

"If it were only that." She smiles at him, tight-lipped. He leans down and kisses her, close lipped but long and fully.

"I love you."

Barely audible, mostly just the motion of speaking, "Me too."

Once again he's good-naturedly flippant, "Great, isn't it?" She smiles; he heads to the door and gives her a wink before closing the door behind him.

* * *

**Months later Jordan calls Angela on the phone unexpectedly.**

"Hello?"

"Hey." Angela immediately places his voice and is surprised to be hearing from him, but is casually happy to be in contact again.

"Hey." Her tone is upbeat and playful, "What're _you_ doing?" After no response, she laughs. "Did you just shrug, on the phone?"

"How you been?"

"Good. You know, school."

"Right."

"Everything good? _ Should I listen for a head nod?"

"You busy?"

"Not really; should we hang out? _ 'Kay I'll meet you in fifteen."

* * *

_Posted 9/2/12_


	30. Senior Year

_**Rough little glimpses into Angela's senior year. Nothing here is a favorite but wanted to provide snapshots of senior year, Angela's other high school relationship, and how her relationship with Jordan fares. (My original timeline of events — Jordan's graduation and girlfriends got a little hacked as I was writing this. The original plan also was that she and Jordan, after breaking up her junior year, tried dating again at the beginning of her senior year until a fight and blow up break-up that does not result in lasting hostility, but that all got lost in this version — may go back and revise.)**_

* * *

Angela and Henry Kinninger find a table in the stacks in the Liberty High library. They've been partnered in their AP Government class and are meeting to discuss the case studies assigned. Henry tucks into the desk.

Angela's always known who he was, they've had some classes together on and off throughout the four years at Liberty: He's the editor of the school newspaper, is the senior class rep. in student leadership, and is in every honors and AP class on campus. She heard somewhere he was in the running for valedictorian. She knows he plays the piano as she's seen him perform with the school's jazz band, and though they've had classes they've never spoken really outside of class — something about the MUN kids always intimidated her.

Henry Kinninger though is not a classroom know-it-all by-the-book kind of guy. He's more Bill Nye than Nova. He's smart and works hard, but it's not all he does. He plays varsity soccer, he's super laid back, has a smile for everyone, can genuinely talk to anyone — teachers, the kid who eats lunch in the bathroom alone, anyone. He's got a wicked laugh and though he takes school and his various other roles and responsibilities seriously, he does not take himself seriously. Last spring while all the other teams were in the school-issued tee shirt, his Scholar Quiz team, which came within two points of besting the reigning seniors (who came to finals in suits), dressed as what they termed "historical badasses"; he was Rasputin, or maybe Porter Rockwell, it was hard to tell, but he definitely had a beard. He and his friends do the same for their AP tests. While a lot of kids sit the test in something close to pajamas, or just their everyday school day clothes, Henry and his buddies come dressed in theme. AP Literature it was characters from The Canterbury Tales; Henry was the Wife of Bath.

Angela doesn't know quiet what to make of him, but she likes the idea of him at least, and wasn't disappointed when they'd been paired up. This is their second study session. "Hey," she smiles. "So, I read the cases, and the reading on judicial review."

"I outlined the cases already," Henry hands over a copy of the work he's prepared, "so let's focus on the judicial review—" Looking over his notes on the assignment he reads, "'Is it democratic, is it not?' 'Cite cases that support each assertion'."

Angela nods, "It seems like the one involving…" she sorts through her own notes, looking for the specific case, "would work for the not-democratic argument."

"Wanna go to a party tomorrow night?" Angela stops shuffling. She looks up.

"Sure."

* * *

The next night Angela enters the house matching the address Henry had written for her on a folded sheet of yellow legal paper. The boy who's house this is has a sister in Girl Scouts with Danielle, repeatedly set the curve in AP US history, and once, as the story's told, was the person behind putting the 'Want' ad in the local paper for a new principal after the school reduced the humanities electives offered by more than half. More than that, other than he is Henry's friend, Angela knows very little. And she thinks, as she crosses the threshold, it's been some time since she's walked into a house party at a stranger's to meet a boy she hardly knows.

Angela moves through the foyer into the living room. Looking around she realizes she knows a lot of these kids, or recognizes them from classes and school activities, but she has never seen this world. All the parties she's been to have been populated by Jordan's crowd — those who predominantly occupy the peripheral roles at school. This is not the "in crowd", people like Amber Stapleton and Casey Hall were not in attendance, this was not that scene. These were kids active in school, in sports, academics, regular kids, with regular families, having regular kick backs. There was Abyssinia; Angela smiles and she waves. Angela never realized this was happening. The thought strikes her that in a parallel reality this would be Tino's world. On a sofa with some friends she spots Henry, holing a green beer bottle on his knee. He looks up when he sees her. "Hey, Angela."

"Hey."

Henry stands turning his attention from his friends to her, "You want a beer, or something?"

"I'm good."

He takes a step towards her. "How's your weekend?"

"It's good."

"Glad you made it." He's handsome. With something of an elf look about him — slightly pointed features and arched brows. His crystal blue eyes seem to twinkle when he smiles, which he's quick to do. Angela notes how open he is, just absolutely comfortable with himself and with everything he's about and everyone around him. He lifts the bottle to his lips and she sees the huge bloody scab spanning most of his forearm and elbow.

"Oh my God." She looks from it to him, "What happened?"

He kind of glances at it. "Oh. Skating." Once more Angela wonders if he knows Tino. And then considers how she'd feel if he did...

...

Angela's spent much of the night talking with Henry and a couple kids from class. She'd had a nice conversation with Abyssinia. While Henry's checking in with friends somewhere else in the house, Angela looks up when a familiar voice is suddenly behind her.

"Don't I know you." There's no question in this wry, teasing deep voice. Jordan. She turns.

"Hey there," she smiles. He grins at her. "Why're you here?" Jordan's academic path had been a little disjointed lately and he's basically done with school save for a few last remaining credits he's mostly working on through an independent study contract. She hasn't seen him around much. But school or no school, she would never have expected to see him here.

Jordan shrugs. "Not driving; this is where we ended up." Angela knows this story — like always, "Somebody knows someone."

"You're too old to be here," she jibes. Jordan grins. He's always liked sharp, sarcastic Angela.

"Maybe you're too young."

"'Too young' 'old enough', it's hard to keep track with you." Touché.

Referencing her empty hands he smirks good-naturedly, "Still a big drinker I see."

"Found you a bottle of water." Henry's appeared beside them and Jordan takes him in as he extends a bottle of water to Angela.

Angela smiles, "Thanks." She tucks her hair and takes the plastic bottle.

Henry acknowledges Jordan with an egalitarian head nod, "Hi, man."

Jordan takes in how unfazed this guy seems to be to find Angela talking to another guy, yet how attentive he is with her. He decides he doesn't like this self-assurance and deems this kind of confidence as arrogant. He does not linger on the fact that all reactions of this nature are absurd and not at all within his purview anymore. His response is gruff, "Hey."

"Angela, we're hitting the Early Bird, could you do some eggs, or pancakes?" Henry extends the invite to Jordan, "You too."

"I'm good," Jordan declines. "This girl loves eggs though." Okay, maybe that was too far; maybe getting territorial over her breakfast food preference was ridiculous, but it'd just come out. Angela blinks.

Henry covers the awkwardness with a good-natured laugh, "Good to know." Jordan would have liked to have seen him squirm, but he kind of likes that he didn't. He doesn't want to like any new guy but he doesn't want to have outright hate him either.

"Okay…" Angela smiles, diplomatically giving her ex the exit cue. "Jordan."

Jordan laughs and moves away, "Later."

"Good to meet you," Henry nods at him.

To Angela Jordan flashes his most knowing satiric grin, "Enjoy that water." Angela watches him leave then turns back to Henry.

"Big brother?" he kids once they're alone. Angela rolls her eyes and smiles. Running into Jordan like that was not ideal. And what did he think he was doing talking like that? But Henry seemed pretty unflappable and the night seemed none the worse for the interruption. "So," he smiles at her, "you in?" After a beat she nods decidedly and walks past him when he gestures for her to pass.

* * *

Henry and Angela have remained behind at the Early Bird Café after their companions headed out. Their table has been cleared except for water glasses and a remaining side order of home fries, and as Angela sits there, knees up, her feet on the booth seat with her, talking with this smart, funny, cute, easy going boy, she's enjoying the recently extended one o'clock curfew of senior year and all that comes with taking a chance and once more broadening her horizons.

Henry's circling his finger tip round the edge of his water glass. "So, you don't go out that often, do you?"

"Do you mean to parties, or out on dates?"

"I meant parties."

Angela shrugs, "I don't know. I did. For a time."

"And you don't drink?"

"Not really."

Henry's natural irony neutralizes and renders mute any internal conflict she might have been having over the prudence of such an answer, "So, basically you're a supporter of the eighteenth amendment."

Angela chuckles. "Oh, absolutely."

"Did you see that?" he asks, looking in irony for recognition of his joke.

Angela chuckles again and nods, "Nice one, Mr. Class President."

Henry purposely plays the dork by dragging it out through over-explanation, "'Cuz government's the class we've got together."

"Uh, huh," she smiles. This is nice.

"So. Explain the looming gentleman."

"Huh? Oh." She lightly tilts her head to the side, "Ex. boyfriend."

Henry mock grimaces in feigned anger, "Knew it." He nods, kind of to himself, "I got one of those. —An ex, not a boyfriend." Angela knows. Kaya Garrett. Brunette, violinist, member of MUN. The girl who always seemed to have it together but always made it look easy. She was effortlessly cool and they had dated for over two years. He drinks his water. "Recent?" She shakes her head. "Long term?"

"Mm, close to a year I guess."

Henry holds up a hand, "Two and a half."

"Impressive," she nods. He was. Henry takes a spare paper napkin and deftly folds it into a sitting fox, setting it in front of her. "Thanks," she smiles.

"Sure."

* * *

It's autumn and Jordan's working the Saturday shift at the auto garage. He comes in from the back when the bell jangles above the door. Wiping grease off his hands in a rag he looks up and finds himself looking at an odd-looking seventeen-year-old girl. She's got some kind of crazy cap on made of orange and yellow silk flowers, and a strange dress thing that kind of hangs and droops. It's definitely a singular look. "Hey. _ You need help?"

"Yeah…" she looks around, "I'm looking for side view mirrors." Her chipped nail polish is black and her left arm is almost complete covered in multicolored tattoos.

"What, uh," Jordan scratches the back of his head and looks her over, "hat's the make and model?"

"Really doesn't matter."

"It does actually. It needs to fit."

"Well," she poses, "couldn't I just weld it?"

"If you want your car to look like crap you could."

"Is a thing made for transportation supposed to look a certain way?" She taps the Smog Test sign on the counter, "There an aesthetics test too?"

"Guess not," he snorts. "Doesn't look like, you, uh, care about fitting in." He adds in good humor, "That's uh, a hat."

"Yeah?" She responds in knowing irony. "You like it?" He doesn't know what to think. She's not a hippie and she's not grunge. "Anyway, it's not for my car. See, I'm working on this project and I need a bunch of old auto mirrors."

Jordan scratches the underside of his jaw. "Well, we don't actually have that kind of stuff lying around."

"Okay," she nods, "well," the girl looks around, "thought I'd try." She drums the counter. "Any suggestions?"

"Yeah. Uh…" He turns round and searches a cork board then pulls down a business card and turns back to her, passing it over between his index and middle fingers. "Here. Salvage yard. They'll have what you're looking for."

She smiles at him. "Cool." There's something about the way she looks at him, with no guile, that he likes. She taps the card against the counter, "Thanks." She turns to leave.

"Wait, so, what are you doing?"

"I'm constructing a sculpture out of car mirrors." She watches him for a reaction.

She's an artist. "Oh. _ Cool."

Her brows arch, "Weird?"

Jordan gives a good-natured shrug, "Whatever." He adds, "No weirder than that hat."

"You speak your mind," she scoffs, then moves again to leave. "Okay." She spots a short pile of textbooks behind him. "You in school?"

He glances back at them, "Barely."

"Liberty."

"Same here."

"Fellow Pirate, nice."

"I'm almost out of there. It's complicated." He cuts himself off, no reason to get into the long sordid history of high school, almost failing out, transferring to continuation, transferring back when budget cuts closed it down. He clears his throat, "Listen, jot down your number and if something comes in I'll give you a call." She looks at him, deliberates momentarily, then shrugs, decides 'why not' and grabs a business card from the stack holder on the counter and taking a pen scrawls out her name, her number, and does a quick sketch of a passenger side mirror. She hands it over to him. He smiles at the picture and reads her name, "Chelsea."

She nods. "Later," and her eyes narrow as she reads the patch on his shirt, "Jordan."

"Later."

* * *

A week later, in a down moment at work, Jordan picks up the phone and dials the number written on the back of the business card. "_ Chelsea? _ Hey. It's Jordan. From the garage— _ Yeah. So, uh, I'm heading to the salvage yard for something; you already go? _ So, you want a ride? _ Great. Where do I find you?"

* * *

Jordan's trip to the salvage yard went well. The conversation came easy, she was funny and a little sarcastic. She was chill but didn't flirt, and she knew a lot about things like welding and circuitry. He didn't know art could be so, industrial. They went for tacos after.

After that it was an oil change that somehow turned into a few frames of bowling. Next was a meet up for a rock show at Pike Street. Then a party at Tino's where she got Shane on her side.

Angela too was starting something up. Henry had taken her to the movies, asked her to his soccer game, and brought her home. They'd gone for two walks and a drive and had done a lot of homework in between. He held her hand and she kissed him. From there it got pretty real. Official status didn't come very far behind. Then the Homecoming dance. She wore a little black boat-necked taffeta dress a wide flat bow in her up-done hair, and he wore the yellow sash of a Homecoming prince.

* * *

One day after school Angela's in the journalism room looking through photos she's submitting for the month's issue. Chelsea's passing by and spotting her ducks her head in, "Angela."

Angela raises her head and smiles, "Oh, hey."

"Chelsea," she needlessly reintroduces herself.

"Yeah. Photo, sophomore year. Hi." They were never actual friends, but they'd really gotten along the year they took Intro to Photography together.

"So," she moves into the room, "Jordan…"

"You're dating," Angela finishes for her.

"Not yet."

"Please do. _ Have you seen the girls he's been going out with?"

* * *

...

* * *

"Hey." Shane enters the tiny, somewhat dilapidated two bedroom apartment Jordan, Kirk and Laurence have been sharing for the past couple months. Since Tino lost the lease on the loft they'd been renting an actual rehearsal space, or comparatively a closet, in a building of storage units repurposed for that intent, and this place had come to take the place of the all-purpose hang out space. There's a pretty tacit open door policy that's been established, namely, if the door's unlocked don't bother with knocking. Jordan, who frequently seeks out quiet and doesn't all together mind solitude, doesn't exactly love it, but he'll take it in a second over where he left.

The day he left his father's house may have been anticlimactic given the years of build up, but it was nonetheless sweet. Jordan hadn't said anything about looking for a place, though his father certainly had in the past couple years. When they found the place and signed the lease Jordan had his stuff packed into the back of the Plymouth in less than two hours. When his old man got home Jordan'd left his key on the kitchen table beside his new phone number, scrawled on a corner torn from Tino's copy of Punk And Disorderly, and a waiting shot of bourbon. Though he'd never acted on any of the chances he'd had to get out earlier, as a kid Jordan'd fantasized about some kind of big blow out the day he'd finally move out; but when the time came it seemed so unnecessary — it was over, he was gone.

He's got his own place now, and sitting there in some armchair begged off of someone, Jordan watches Shane cross to his yellowed fridge and help himself to a beer. Cracking it open Shane steps over the back of the used sofa and takes a seat beside Kirk who's making record time through the levels in Bond on the Nintendo 64. Shane drinks, and watches the video game play across the television screen. "Saw the formerly red-headed Angela Chase last night."

"Oh yeah?" Jordan's not particularly intrigued but he'll have the conversation.

"Didn't talk to her."

"Okay."

Shane continues: "Looks like she's got a guy." He drinks. "Looks like he could be a senator, or a pilot."

"'A pilot'?" Jordan chuckles.

Never taking his eyes from the screen, his thumbs moving at manic speeds — clicking, tapping, thumping — Kirk chimes in, "What's that look like exactly?"

"Brainy," Shane gets out between mouthfuls of pretzels, "but, not a geek. Smooth."

Kirk laughs and nods his head, "Okay."

Jordan hasn't moved. "Any reason you're telling me all this?"

"Just keeping the troops informed," Shane says blithely. He's not pretending to know what Jordan does and does not feel when it comes to Angela Chase. He knows he doesn't care. But though the break up was last year, and Jordan had more than moved on, Shane guess the statute on limitations hasn't run out on updates on the big stuff.

Jordan shakes his head, Angela can do whatever she pleases.

* * *

Angela and Henry pull up to Jordan's filling station in his gold 1984 diesel Mercedes. Henry gets out to fill his tank while Angela remains in the car, hopefully out of sight. She never goes to this station on her own, but making a thing of it with someone else, particularly the current boyfriend, would have been making a much bigger deal of it all together. It wasn't like it was like that between her and Jordan, it wasn't much of anything.

Henry returns from the cashier and begins to fill the tank. Ducking his head to the window he asks her, "Can you watch the pump, I'm hitting the head." Angela nods, gets out, moves slowly round the back of the car, and leans against the trunk, watching the gauge. Of course, because that's how life works sometimes, though rarely when one wants it to, Jordan pulls into the lot, heading to work. He watches her as he does, not positive that it is her. He parks and casually crosses the lot to her.

"Get a new car?"

Angela looks behind her at the car she's leaning against, then shakes her head. "'s a friend's."

"_Boy_-friend?"

Angela's brows raise as confirmation. "Stand here long enough you can meet him. _ Actually, you did once."

"The water boy?" She makes a face. He chuckles. "How's that going?"

Angela looks at him, she smiles, "Good."

"You're parents miss me?" She laughs; he smiles back at her wryly. The green nozzle clicks loudly, indicating the tank is full. Angela returns the nozzle to the pump and screws the cap back on. If it had been her alone with her car Jordan wouldn't have hesitated to have done this for her, but as things are he remains in place. "You like the diesel?" This seems to have been asked on more than one level.

Then Henry returns from the cashier drinking Martinelli's from a glass apple bottle and tosses Angela a pack of cashews. "Hey," he greets them. Jordan does a head nod. Henry, speaking in a very open, good-natured manner, extends his hand and reintroduces himself, "Henry. _ You work here?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome."

Angela looks to Henry, "Should we go?"

He doesn't seem all that rushed, "We're okay." He doesn't want to be too committal one way or the other because he doesn't know if she's looking for an excuse to leave, or if she wants to linger but doesn't want to keep him.

To be sociable Jordan speaks up, "Movie?" He guesses this because of the mention of a time constraint.

"No; uh, my mom has this coworker who does comedy; we're gonna catch his act." Jordan wasn't expecting this (seems pretty cool), nor a guy so okay talking about his mother with a guy he's just met. He doesn't seem at all concerned with fronting as 'cool' — Jordan thinks he likes him. He thinks he sees why Angela does. And he maybe momentarily wonders why she ever liked him.

"We should probably go."

"Sure," Henry nods. "See you around."

Jordan clears his throat, "Yeah." Thinking something over in the split second in which they turn back to the car, Jordan rubs the back of his head and then gestures towards them with a vague point, "I think we're probably playing tomorrow night." He nods at Angela, "At Russell's. Or we'll be at the river." He gestures again as if to indicate it's no skin off his back either way, "You should come by."

Angela smiles, "Sure; maybe." Henry gives a quick wrist wave and they get into the car. Jordan heads into the office to punch in.

* * *

Saturday morning Angela and Henry have met at the local public library branch to study for an upcoming exam. They're sitting silently, reading, highlighting, making notecards, and exchanging notes. Her bare foot is in his lap. Angela finds something in a reference book she had been looking for and pushes it across the table to him, leaning over it to point out the passage. "See, here it is... I think it's saying—"

"I know that girl."

Angela straightens a little and turns to see who's there. "Hey Tino." She hasn't seen Tino much at all lately, which isn't saying a lot as he's never been easy to find. But now there he is, standing there in the morning light by the windowed wall in the reference section of the library. He scrunches his face in a quick endearing 'hello' to Angela then nods a greeting to her companion.

"Henry. Hey."

"O-oh," Tino nods knowingly. "This is the guy." He looks to Angela for the unnecessary confirmation that it is indeed the new boyfriend.

"Oh God," Angela says dryly, her eyes rolling as she does.

Tino looks at her, "What was that?"

"Nothing." For something to do to shift the conversation Angela stacks some of her papers. "What are you doing here?"

Tino looks about him like it should be plainly obvious: "I love libraries."

"Of course you do," she smiles. Tino stands there. "Tell him 'hi.'" No one needs the 'him' further clarified.

"I don't have to..." His offer carries with it the implication that maybe this would be too much for her to handle. Teasingly of course. At least mostly.

"I'm fine," she assures him.

"Aye aye." Tino salutes Henry and moves on. Angela doesn't try to explain but Henry's pretty unflappable anyway.

* * *

Early December, edging towards winter break Angela and Graham are outside the Chase house sorting through strings of colored lights getting ready to hang them. "Happens every year," Graham gripes. "Almost the twenty-first century, can't someone think up a way to keep these things from getting tangled?"

"And finding which one's burned out," Angela offers in solidarity.

"Ooh!" Graham points at her in emphasized agreement. Angela's smiling until her attention's drawn away by a red convertible pulling up and parking alongside the curb out front. When he hears the car door shut close Graham looks back at the street. Jordan, a face not seen on this street for some time, saunters around the front of his car to the Chase's walkway.

As he moves up the path he appears older than he had the last time he was there; his shoulders look so broad in his blue flannel shirt. "Hey."

Angela glances at her dad then back at Jordan, "Hi."

Jordan gives a head nod to Graham, "Hey."

"Jordan," Graham smiles. He finishes hammering in the nail he'd been working on, then climbs down the ladder.

Jordan takes it in, "Looks good."

"We're getting there." Graham takes his cue and pats Angela on the shoulder as he heads toward the house. "Good to see you." Jordan half waves and Graham nods and closes the door behind him.

Hands in his jacket pockets Jordan paces and takes in the project. "Looks good."

"Haven't really started yet."

Realizing that's true Jordan nods slowly. "So what's up?"

Angela shrugs and leans against one of the porch pillars and smiles, "You tell me."

He shrugs, swings his shoulder, and shifts his lower jaw to the side. "Party, at Swatek's."

"Give me a hand." Jordan mounts the porch and she hands him one end of the lights strand and with his help proceeds with untangling it. "I haven't seen you in a while."

He clears his throat, "Yeah."

"Still seeing Chelsea?"

He nods, "She'll be there, tonight. 'N everyone else."

She gives a final shake to the string, "I think it's ready." Angela backs towards the ladder and he follows, carrying an armful of lights. She begins climbing, and he holds onto the ladder with one hand. Angela reaches out to hang the lights from the nails in the eaves. "Why the invite?"

Jordan shrugs; "Christmas?"

"Right." Reaching for the next nail out she leans over past where she can reach.

"Think you'd better move the ladder over." She figures he's right and climbs down and lifts and repositions the ladder with Jordan. "So, tonight?"

"Um, why not."

He lets go the last end of the lights as she finishes hanging the strand and inspects the end result. "I never really got these."

She makes a face. There's so much over the years — the simple stuff — that Jordan never really 'got'. "They're cheerful. And pretty; the colors all blur together—" She stops herself, and half laughs. "You're so odd." His brow furrows.

"Tonight. You've got a way to get there?"

"So, you're just, asking me to a party? Like, out of nowhere?"

"Yeah," he shrugs. "_You_. You can get there?"

She nods, "I got it."

"You know where you're going?"

"Probably not."

He laughs. "I'll write it down."

"Tino will be there?"

"He will be if you are."

* * *

Angela's sitting beside Jordan on the edge of the roof patio at the party she'd met him at. The night is cold and the stars burn brightly above. Below them in the darkness glow hundreds of tiny warmly lit Christmas lights. The air smells like snow, but there hasn't been any for two weeks, only patches here and there remain from the early winter storms.

She'd spent a lot of the evening talking with his girlfriend and some time catching up with people she hadn't seen for months. Tino never showed. At some point she and Jordan struck up a conversation and made their way up to the roof. Now they're sitting in quiet silence and Angela's absently picking at the label on Jordan's empty beer bottle. Jordan flicks his cigarette butt off the roof and uses his lighter to pop off the cap from his next beer. Angela looks up at the stars. When she speaks her words are steady and understated, "I don't want to say this to you, but, you broke my heart." He makes a face as if to say he doesn't believe her. "It's true."

Jordan lifts his beer to his lips again but does not drink, he keeps his response casual, "How d'ya figure? We were done."

"And you don't know how that hurt."

"That's not the same as what you just said." He looks at her, then clinks his bottle against the one she holds in her lap, "Anyway, you seem to have recovered." He can't keep from smirking a little, "What with Mr.—"

"—_Okay_," she cuts him off from any short names he may have for Henry.

"But really," he looks up at her from beneath his lashes, "you're okay?"

"Jordan. It's been a year. _Yes_, I'm okay."

"Well, why'd you even go there then?"

"_Jordan_," she's surprised by his frustrated response. Her mouth is open, she's poised to speak, but doesn't quite have the words; she shakes her head. "I loved you."

Jordan swallows, and rubs his eye with his thumb. "I know." Angela looks at him, and purses her lips. Then she reaches out and takes his beer from his hand and takes a drink.

"I like her."

He glances at her, "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kind of laughs. _What the hell is it about them? How do they end up back here? In these conversations? _Separated for months and then, boom, instant rapport, instant intimacy. With so much history it's crazy they can just sit there and talk, and laugh, and tease, even after she lays something like a broken heart on him._ Is this love? _He goes through his daily life not thinking about her, ever. He's got a great thing going with Chelsea, Angela's apparently flying high with the pilot, and they're fine. They're good on their own. But then they have these talks. And it's like he's talking to Tino, or to Lisa, only not. Because its her. And, she just knows him in this way that he loves, and that he gets from no one else but her.

"Which," she adds, "I know you don't care about."

"Course not." He reclaims the bottle and drinks, and swings his legs. "I'm not saying anything 'bout him."

She looks at him with a wry smile before looking back down on the people below the, "Of course not."

Jordan nods his head in a silent chuckle. _This is how it goes_.

* * *

In February Jordan runs in to Henry at Pike Street. Standing against the wall Henry leans drinking a beer and listening to the Pittsburgh native punk rock band. Jordan debates for a second then comes over.

Henry swallows. "Hey Man."

"Hey," Jordan nods. "How's it going?"

Cigarette hanging from his mouth, Henry flicks his dying lighter. "You got a light?"

Jordan glances at him then pulls his from his pocket, "Yeah."

"Thanks." Henry lights his cigarette, tosses the lighter back, and exhales.

"How she doing?"

Nate, who's passing by to the bar salutes Henry as he does, "Senator."

With mild confusion Henry's eyes follow him for a second then he returns his attention to Jordan, "She's good."

With vague curiosity Jordan swings his shoulder towards the cigarette, "You 'sposed to do that?" All Jordan knows about the senator is that he's smart, runs track and's some kind of soccer star. Smoking doesn't seem to gel with that.

Henry exhales. "Off season."

"Right."

"You like the show?"

Jordan glances at the stage. "I'm not really into the hardcore scene." Henry nods. "I'm getting in there in a second." He means the circle pit. Jordan looks back at it again. He knows Tino's into it, Joey too, but to him moshing is just dumb. Entertaining to watch though. The guys take it so seriously, and they front something hard.

Jordan's out of things to say. "See ya."

"Yeah, man. Take it easy."

* * *

Out of sixth period early Angela exits the main building to the mostly desolate campus. Here and there are a few gatherings of students but mostly the student body is still behind closed doors waiting for the time to pass. In the Liberty visitor parking lot Angela spots a familiar vehicle she hasn't seen on campus for some time. She crosses to him.

When Jordan sees her approaching he exits and leans against his parked car, waiting for her. "Hey." He kicks the ground a little.

Angela smiles warmly, shielding the sun from her eyes as she looks at him. "Picking up Chelsea?"

"Uh,huh. What are you, ditching?"

"Mm,hm. Create a cover while I run and hide."

"Hey, I uh, saw your guy a while back."

"Oh, at that show? Yeah, he said."

"Not gonna say I hate him."

"Wow. Highest praise. I like _your_ girl."

"That's 'cuz I got taste."

"No," she smiles; "I'm glad you're seeing her."

"Yeah? How come?"

"Did you _see_ the last one?"

"One what?" he teases.

Angela smiles knowingly at his evasive tactic, "I don't know _what_ they call it." Jordan chuckles.

"But you, uh, you like her?"

"Yeah." She nods decidedly. "I do."

Jordan mocks shock, "She has tattoos."

"I _know_," Angela plays along in alarm.

Jordan sneaks a sideways glance at her before he casually lets drop, "She gave me one."

Angela stops, "One what?"

He watches her, speaking slowly, predicting her reaction, "A tattoo."

Angela's forehead creases, "What do you mean she 'gave' you one? You mean, she went with you? She paid? She gave you the idea? She drew the design?"

Jordan smiles, gratified that she reacted exactly the way he'd known she would. "'Gave'. As in _gave_."

"Chelsea _tattooed_ you? With what?"

"Safety pin." He's enjoying this.

She searches his face, unsure of whether she should believe him. "No." When his expression doesn't change she realizes there's no punchline coming. "How did she know how to do that?"

"A lot of hers she did herself."

"Homemade tattoos? Are you in prison?" She exhales and her head cocks to one side. "What's it of?"

"A skull."

"A _skull_? Are you a pirate? _ Where is it?" He looks at her, then rolls up his shirt sleeve to reveal a thin, sketched outline of a skull and cross bones on his inner forearm. She stares. It doesn't look piratey; it's more of a turned profile of a skull, and while it definitely looks hand-done, it kind of looks punk rock. It works. "Oh, my gosh..." Angela looks at him in alarm. Then, hesitantly, reaches out and gingerly touches it. "Did it _hurt_?"

"Naw, it felt great."

"Are you okay?"

He pulls down his sleeve and flashes a wry grin, "Didn't you hear? I'm scarred for life." She cracks a smile.

"I don't know why you chose a skull; but it actually, doesn't look that bad."

"'Gee.'"

"But," her brow furrows, "you're okay?"

Jordan laughs, her voice can get so grave so fast, "The needle was clean; I'm not dying."

"So," she reflects, "you must be in love."

Jordan scoffs, he didn't see that coming, "Why's that?"

Angela answers, but not particularly in earnest, "She's left a permanent mark on you. Every time you see it, your whole life, you'll think of her."

Jordan shrugs and grins, "It's _my_ arm. 'Sides, every time I see a fake redhead, I'll think of you." She chuckles. "I think I'll survive."

"Well. That's good to know."

Again Jordan looks at her, the trace of a smirk detectable in his expression; "You sleeping with him?" Though taken by surprise, Angela just tilts her head and looks at him dryly. "What? 'Not appropriate'?"

"Not especially. _ Do you _care_?" She means about the answer, not about whether he's appropriate, though he doesn't care about that either.

Slowly he shakes his head, never breaking their eye contact. Jordan grins at her, "Not especially."

Angela's eyes roll. "It's two years too late to flirt with me," she points out, to which he just chuckles.

"You in love?" he asks, still sounding like he's mocking her.

Angela looks at him flatly. "You're not being nice."

"Okay then," he twinkles, "school? Angela going to college?

"That's the plan."

"Ya ready?" The question catches her off guard.

Angela swallows. "I guess. I will be." A group of kids pass by and call out 'hellos' to Angela. Jordan studies them, contemplative and bemused.

"I bet I don't know any of your friends anymore."

"Probably not many, no."

"You and Chels are friends."

Angela nods. "Friendly," she amends. "You wouldn't want more than that."

"Not really," he concurs. Reflective now, Jordan grunts appreciatively, "I gotta say, you've surprised me." Angela looks at him. "Next to Tino, you've moved 'tween crowds pretty easily."

"You thought of me as socially static?"

"Safe," he offers. "Settled." He pushes at her shoulder, "You had a red backpack," Angela smiles that that's even something he remembers; "You had a Sharon and a Brain. You had your perfect attendance and little dresses."

"And?"

"And then Graff and Vasquez."

"And you."

"Yeah," he nods. "Me; Tino, Fitz, whoever. And your girl Sadie. And Chelsea, and this guy, and that whole crowd. You're, fluid. Or, a lot more fluid than I'd expect from someone as rigid as you." He flashes a grin at her.

"It pains you to say something all together nice to me, doesn't it."

"'Nice'." They kind of laugh. Traces of a smile still on his face Jordan looks at her, "So, you are, aren't you. Sleeping with him."

"I just don't think you could be asking for any purpose that would be good. You couldn't possibly care, and if you did, that would only be mean of you."

"Ever think I could care, and just be happy for you?"

"_Are_ you?"

"Are _you_?"

Her expression confirms she is. "So?" she asks. "Happy?"

Smirking a little he shakes his head. "No."

"_See_," she emphasizes, "that's not kind."

"Well," he swaggers, "you never liked me for kindness."

"Clearly," she says dryly before half cracking a smile. "Sometimes you're so predictably a guy. _ It's been much too long for you to care about me, and so now you care about him. That isn't right."

Jordan chuckles her chiding off, "You never not know what to say." The bell rings and in short time there's an outpouring of students from the building. Jordan shoots her a nod, "So what's up, you getting out of here?"

Angela looks about the lot. Absently she bites the corner of her lower lip and scratches her temple, "Mm, hm."

"Need a ride?"

"A 'ride'? With you and the new girlfriend?"

"Sound fun? You said you liked her you know."

"God, you're such a pill."

He pushes her again. "Get outta here already."

"Yeah, yeah." Angela adjusts her bag on her shoulder, "Tell her 'hey.'"

Jordan nods. "Tell _him_ 'hey.'"

She shakes her head ruefully as she walks away, "I hate you."

"That's why we broke up," he teases. Once more she shakes her head.

* * *

In the spring of senior year Angela attends the opening of the Liberty High art department's student exhibition in the civic room attached to the local post office. Moving down the row of the mounted black and white photographs she's inspecting, Angela ends up in the multimedia section. "Hi, Chelsea."

Jordan's tattooed, crazy-haired, homemade-clothing-wearing girlfriend smiles in return, "Hey. Angela, how are you?"

"Good," she smiles. Angela looks at the wall-mounted sculpture constructed of discarded cellular phones, tin cans on strings, and facsimiles of the published letters of famous authors. "This one yours?"

Chelsea glances up, "Yeah."

Angela takes a closer look, really taking it in. "Communication... The decline of... connectivity?"

Chelsea nods slowly, "Something like that. Very nice." At that point something flies and bounces off Chelsea's head. It was a crumpled program. The girls turn and look in the direction from which it'd come. Jordan's in the hallway poised by the snack table, he flashes a wicked grin before turning down the corridor.

"So…" Angela broaches the subject on the minds of every coupled soon-to-be graduating senior, "Are you two…?"

"No," Chelsea rubs her eye and then points them toward the coffee; Angela follows. "Going to school, man. Oregon." Chelsea twists the nozzle on the coffee percolator and fills a styrofoam cup. She offers it to Angela but she shakes her head. "Jordan's, great," she drinks the black coffee. "Good looking as hell, and really very nice." She shrugs, "I don't know, maybe I love him, but— I mean, what's there to say? I'm moving. We're done." She cocks her head in thought, "I'm not really a looking-back kind of girl."

Angela nods distantly, "Uh, huh..." Angela's not quite sure that description fits her. And she's not quite sure about whom she's thinking it...

* * *

The day has come, Liberty High is populated with polyester black robes and square hats. Angela walks in her wood heels and black robe over her black homecoming dress, car keys and mortarboard in hand, ready to graduate. She's waiting outside the gym where she'd prearranged to meet Henry. As she waits she runs her fingers through her silken bobbed blonde hair and watches as her former classmates of the last four, six, and twelve years of her life pass by to their collective crossover to their futures.

Henry approaches, his head newly buzzed excepting for a gelled mohawk. Angela smiles and takes a step or two toward him. "Hey Ivy, loving the look."

"You like?"

"You guys do that last night?"

"Yep." He pulls her in and they kiss.

"So," her lips purse to the side, "when are you leaving?" Henry and his three best friends, also all sporting mohawks for the occasion, have a summer road trip to the west coast planned.

"Uh," he says, still wrestling her in his arms, "Tyler's got one more week of work, then we're outta here."

"So," she steadies him and looks into his eyes, "one more week." She blinks. This has been coming: End of school, start of summer, then college in different states. His trip is when they call it a draw. She kisses him. When she pulls away, she's gripping his multiple honors cords and compartmentalizing everything else in order to be smiling up at him as she is, "I like your tassels."

Once more he kisses her, then gives her a wink. "Let's do this."

She hands off her keys for him to pocket and spins her hat on her finger as they walk toward the gym to line up. "You see Molly Stoddart?"

"Whatever."

"Valedictorian," she says. "It should have been yours."

"I'm over it." He claps the hand of a friend as he passes by. "Five to one she'll start eating her hair at Brown." Angela chuckles and he slaps her backside with his mortarboard.

* * *

After the ceremony the football field is a swarm of friends and families swarming round and enclosing their graduates. The Chases have taken their pictures, given their hugs and kisses, handed off flowers and said their congratulations and returned home to prepare for the family congratulatory dinner that will happen once Angela arrives. On the field she's hugging friends, saying goodbyes and giving well wishes. In the midst of the overflowing of love and euphoria there's a tap on her shoulder. The person who _was_ high school for her for a big part of high school is standing there, predictably unexpected. "You did it."

"Yea me."

"Nice hat."

"You're regretting it aren't you," she smiles. Jordan Catalano had finally officially matriculated at the winter semester. Without a ceremony, without a cap, without a robe. There hadn't been a dinner or flowers, no applause or hat tossing, but Mr. Wilson, as he is apt to do, made a little speech over cigarettes, and Jordan's uncle had gifted him twenty dollars and his old motorcycle jacket. But Angela Chase looked cute in that goofy hat and voluminous robe, and he's glad he's not missing out on seeing her in it.

"Well," he smiles, "I've never really gone in for tassels." _Why does everything he says come off as flirting?_ "So," he flicks her tassel, "off to college?"

"Not today."

"Where's the guy?"

"With his family."

"You two are lookin', pretty somethin' these days."

"'Pretty somethin''?"

Jordan skips the explanation. "He going to school?"

Angela emits a small laugh, "Yeah. He's going to Columbia."

"That a good school?"

"It's an Ivy. _ Yeah, it's a good school."

"You gonna make it to Thanksgiving?"

"I don't know that we'll make it July."

Jordan's brows raise, maybe finding that a little interesting. "How's that?"

"College. Different states. You know what I mean." She gestures, "Same with you Chelsea." He nods. "Is she around?"

"Gone."

"Dinner with her dad?"

"Uh,uh. She's gone. Got on a plane to Oregon yesterday."

"You guys really got something against rented polyester, don't you?" He laughs. "You okay?"

"Yeh. Gonna miss her, she was great." Angela sees he's bummed, but he'd known it was coming and soon he's able to shrug it off. "Girl couldn't wait to start school."

"Wow," she smiles, making an effort to keep it light, "kinda making me feel like a chump for buying into it."

"You?" he glimmers. "You were made for this." Suddenly inexplicably bashful she tucks her hair. "You were," he persists. "You worked hard. You earned this." He tugs at her honors cord. "You did good."

She tucks her hair again, "Thanks. Jordan." He smiles at her and then takes hold of the back of her neck and kisses her gently, friendly, familiarly.

"That's allowed, right? If there's an end point on the books already?" She gives him that sassy look he loves to get out of her. "Big parties tonight?"

"I'll ask my _boyfriend_." He just smiles. "Hey, listen: thank you for showing up."

"No doubt. But," he plays it off, "I got other friends, don't go thinkin' you're special."

"Uh, huh."

* * *

Three weeks after graduation and two weeks after seeing Henry off on his adventure, Angela spots Jordan. She had cried when she had said goodbye — soft tears, quiet tears, because the mood overall had been boisterous and exciting as they set off driving across America to deliver one of the fellowship of four to the door of his dorm room at Stanford — even with all the emotional preparation and rational justifications for the official parting of ways. She loved Henry, he had been a big part of her senior year, and of growing up, and now, still in town, in limbo between school and college, Angela naturally misses him. But she sees Jordan, and she sees a part of high school she feels she never really said goodbye to. Something that's still — there, latent, waiting, something... "Hey."

He straightens up and tunes in, "Hey."

Angela squints up into the bright summer sky. "Nice day."

Jordan's lower jaw juts to the side, and he takes a sideways glance at Angela, "Yeah."

"Summer. Graduation."

"Yeah. Haven't seen you in a while."

"You've seen me."

"In parking lots, at that art show thing." He gestures, "That thing in the black robe when you wouldn't not throw your weird hat in the air." She smiles. "But not really."

"I thought Sheena didn't like me around." Since Chelsea and he called it off and she went out west for college, Jordan'd started hanging out with one of Shane's casual exes. She and Angela had never gotten along great in high school. Jordan was sure how she'd gotten word that was something that was happening.

"Oh," Jordan smiles, "is _that_ what happened?" Angela's lips purse to the side and he waves it off. "Ah. Who remembers." He nudges her, "Up for a party tonight?"

Angela looks at him; a million thoughts could rush through her mind at this moment — but it's summer, and so many things are changing and ending, and there before her is one terrifically beautiful thing that has never changed. He had seen her change, helped her change, let her change, but he, fundamentally, had not. And it was nice. And it was nice the way he smiled at her, and the way he teased and mocked her; because life and the impending opaque vastness of the future didn't seem that unknowable if Jordan Catalano was still there, giving her a hard time and flashing that unforgettable smile. There were reasons to say 'no', valid reasons, but other things were winning out. _It's summer._ She shuts down her thoughts. "Why not."

"'s at Cable's. D'ya know him?" She shakes her head. "Behind the old bakery, near Broadway and Vincent. Nine?"

"Sure."

Halfway joking he adds, "Don't bring him." He'd forgotten that the 'he' was already gone.

"Watch out: Some people might think you meant that. Anyway, there's no _him_." Jordan cocks his brow. "And don't bring her."

She looks at him, leveling, "Do I _ever_ bring her?"

"It's been a while. A reminder couldn't hurt."

"If I had amnesia and senility," he chuckles but she continues, "I still wouldn't forget not to bring Rayanne. I gotta go. I'll see you tonight."

* * *

Angela shows up at the party. Nate spots her as she passes by, "Angela Chase. Haven't seen you for a while." He looks around, "Jordan know you're here?"

She smiles, "Does he need to?"

Nate laughs and shakes his head. "Guess not. Have yourself a good night."

She moves further into the house and Jordan sees her and approaches. "You showed."

"Was I not supposed to? Was it a ceremonial invite?."

"Huh? No, not ceremonial."

"So, that was... just an observation?"

Jordan moves on, shortly glancing about them, "Here alone?"

"As instructed."

"Drink?"

"I'm good."

"So besides showing up to one of these things every nine months or so, what's been filling your time? What's your summer looking like?"

"Working."

"When you leaving for school?"

"Middle of August."

Their eyes meet, and neither looks away. Angela breathes.

Jordan leans in towards her, she can feel the heat of his breath on her neck, "Get outa here?"

Angela nods. "Yeah."

They leave together. Their hands never touch, but their proximity speaks volumes, as does the half a second his palm touches the small of her back as the weave through the crowd. Behind them Nate and Laurence observe their exit.

"There they go again," Nate drinks his beer and watches.

"There has got to be a twelve step program for this."

* * *

Two weeks later or so Jordan and Angela have hung a few times. Nothing happened that night they left the party together, just a long drive, coffee, and conversation. They're both still coming off of relationships they valued and are taking things slowly, just hanging as friends, no more than a friendly kiss or two between them. But something more is waiting if they want it.

This night he's driving her home from dinner. They drive, listening to the radio. When the station breaks for commercial she reaches out and changes the stations until she lands upon the instrumental intro to Jackson Five's "I Want You Back"; she smiles and takes her hand off the dial. Angela leans back in her seat.

Jordan's eyes roll. "Switch it." She ignores him and subtly bobs her head to the music.

"'Let me tell ya now.'"

He shakes his head, "You know the words."

Angela's completely unfazed by his cynicism. "You know you do too. … 'Show you that I love you…'" He looks over and sees her quietly rocking out – it's just a song to her, it's not a secret message. There are no hidden connections – just a young woman, enjoying an old song, making the most of the summer. She's just looking out the window enjoying herself, and instead of thinking about all the old things this silly pop song could have dredged up, he thinks about all the times he's looked over from that driver's seat to see Angela Chase smiling and laughing beside him in his car. And now there she is again, and she looks so happy, and cute. And he lets it be and drives faster. … "'a boo boo boo boo...'" Jordan laughs.

* * *

Within another week it was them, together, all the time. It was never made official because she was leaving in August, but they were absolutely together for the summer, and Angela got to know Jordan's apartment very well.

* * *

_Posted 4/22/13_


	31. I see what you're doing

At a house party in Three Rivers in the spring of 2000, the age of the crowd varies – a mixture of high schoolers and people in their early twenties. A 22-year-old Jordan Catalano, newly returned from his near-year stint as an ex patriot in Veracruz, is standing in the living room shooting the shit with several guys he knows. It's their friend's place, the high school kids just show up – word of mouth from younger brothers or a girl seeing someone older (or looking to) – the usual. They look around it 'cuz they did the same when they were that age. The younger ones can bring the drama, but they've got enthusiasm and a desire to impress working in their favor.

From across the room a small group of high school girls standing in the kitchen catches Jordan's eye, for a reason he's not quite sure of. He appears to remain engaged in his conversation, but his gaze occasionally travels back to the girls, observing them as they betray themselves as novice drinkers, perpetually silly, and increasingly obnoxious. He's just returned his focus to his friends when he thinks he hears his name being giggled from the same group of girls. This time when he looks over he sees a somewhat familiar face, the owner of which carrying herself as if she would like to give the impression of experience, maturity, and familiarity. Danielle Chase, now sixteen, gives Jordan a slight head nod of recognition. Jordan, in return, walks away.

* * *

Later, Jordan is alone in the kitchen, leaning against a counter. Drinking from a bottle of whisky, he momentarily closes his eyes as he rests his head back on a cabinet. A young girl, maybe fifteen, possibly sixteen – it's hard to tell, she's tried so hard to up her age – approaches.

"Hi." She is short, with dark curly, curly hair and a lot of eye makeup. "You're Jordan, Catalano, right?" Though aside from the makeup and the top she put on she looks more like a baby than an adult, she's got enough of the self-deceiving confidence of youth that she believes she's talking to him as equals, and that there's something worldly in the way she's standing, looking up at him. He opens his eyes and shifts his head just enough to look at her. His stare is blank as his silence allows her to continue. She does; "You drive a red convertible car, don't you?" When he doesn't show any interest in confirming any kind of personal information, she moves on. "Whach'ya drinkin'?" She's getting nothing, just detached observation. "_Hey_, aren't you going to talk to me?" Still silent, Jordan shifts his weight and she shifts her conversation, watching him for his reaction: "I know someone who knows you."

Across the room the girl's friends are watching. Jordan and the girl are out of hearing range, but they see him standing there, listening to her, slightly amused, saying one or two words to her every now and then. The girl – who is on her way to being drunk – with unmerrited familiarity, reaches out and places her hand on his forearm; in one graceful movement Jordan coolly says something to the girl, detaches himself from her, and just walks away.

* * *

Later in the evening, the party in the backyard is still going, but most people by now have gathered into small clusters, and the crowd in general is a little less wild. Many have moved to the porch or inside the house, but there are still some people in the yard.

Danielle stands alone out at the keg, pumping it. Up. And down. Jordan casually approaches her. He puts his hand on her pumping hand. "You've pumped it too much." She looks up. He takes the tap from her and squirts it onto the ground. "It's all foam." He takes her cup and continues to fill it and dump it to eliminate the foam.

Danielle takes a step back, a little embarrassed, "Thanks."

Jordan doesn't look at her, "That was your friend. Wasn't it."

"Who?" Disinterested in her teenage coyness Jordan cocks his eyebrow in answer; he hands her the beer. "It wasn't my idea," is her confirming statement. Jordan lights a cigarette and exhales away from her face. He doesn't have much of anything to say to her. "So," she peers up at him, "aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here?"

He glances at her. Her sister never dressed like that. "I see what you're doing here."

Jordan's disengaged nonchalance pushes Danielle to assume the air of cool aloofness; she does not want to stand out – it's been years since Danielle was a rookie on any sports team she plays on, and she doesn't intend to be one here. "Well, anyway, the party sucks."

Amused, Jordan looks down at her, "Oh yeah?"

She's blasé when she answers; "I was at a better one last week." This could be true, or this could be her first party ever, it is difficult to say. She's definitely playing it cool, and is much better at it than someone else, as he remembers. He sees her posturing for adulthood, and he vaguely wonders if she's for real, or only trying it on for size. He'd been in a hurry to grow up too... and _she_, she had been the opposite – thinking she wanted it, but holding on to being a kid in so many ways. With another glance in her direction he wonders if the little sister's that same way. But before he thinks too long on it he stops; it isn't any of his business. He owes nothing to this kid. Danielle Chase or not.

Jordan takes another drag from his cigarette. A girl comes by, they clearly know each other. She leans on him as they exchange a few words; there is a small amount of flirting, he grins at her, and then she walks away.

Danielle follows the girl with her eyes. She glances at Jordan, asking dryly, "You talk to Angela ever?"

Jordan looks her over with a knowing partial-smirk before he looks away, "I'll bet you already know the answer to that."

She does, pretty much. While she's closer now with her sister than she was when they both lived at home, Danielle's only ever gotten glimpses into Angela's actual life in high school, or her ongoing relationship with the brooding enigma Jordan Catalano. Even Danielle's own feelings about Jordan have never been all that clear to her. He'd been unknowable to her in her youth: Angela was withholding on the subject, he was never around, save for a moment here and there, and when he was he'd never spoken, to her. Nothing that wasn't monosyllabic. _That doesn't seem to have changed_. And while Danielle had found him taciturn and closed-mouth, frustratingly sedate and subtly mocking, he had nonetheless been folded in to her formative adolescent conceit of a subject of desire. It's strange now to be there, in a torch-lit backyard of a house party, conversing with him, no longer the dismissible younger sibling. She does not desire _him_, but he, and Han, and Sundance, and Rhett, and Renfro, are the shaping source of her desire, though she could not have named him as part of that list until she saw him there this night, as she watched from across the room. She looks again at him; Jordan Catalano, for her, merely represents the abstract of something she is waiting for, but for her sister he was actually it – her first heartbreak, her first love. And worldly affectation aside, Danielle is still young enough, and inexperienced enough, to believe that that will always matter – that it does, and shall continue to, count for something. And she wants to see proof of it. "She's seeing someone else, you know." Danielle watches him, waiting for a reaction.

Jordan has no particular reaction to this; he only answers because he can tell her little sister's expecting him to. He clears his throat. "Oh yeah?"

Having never gotten the full story from her sister, Danielle's brows narrow as she asks, "What happened between you two?"

Jordan studies her before answering. "We grew up."

Somewhere on the spectrum between pointed and thoughtful Danielle remarks, "I don't think that had anything to do with it."

"Maybe not." And Jordan takes a drink.

A friend approaches, "We're taking off, Man." Jordan nods. The friend looks Danielle over. "Pretty young, Catalano." Jordan half-cracks a smile as he looks away and takes a long drag off his cigarette. The day he starts looking at high school girls, or at Danille Chase as anything other than– he stops; there's no need to finish the thought, it's never going to happen.

"I'm Angela's sister," she says to the guy.

He is friendly, but dismissive in his reply, "I don't know who that is, Baby."

Danielle sees now the extent to which things have changed. If 'Angela' is not a name recognizable to his friends, then Jordan really has moved on; a little part of her absorbs the hurt on her sister's behalf. She doesn't even know why she'd said it. Was it to justify herself or in spite of herself? She does not wish to eternally be the baby sister, the younger one in the elder's shadow. Suddenly she sees it silly to be standing there with Angela's former boyfriend. _What had that been about proving?_

In response, Danielle downs the rest of her beer, or, as much of it as she can. This too amuses Jordan. His arms are crossed and he flicks some ash from his cigarette as he watches her. His friend too finds this funny and wraps his arm around her, "_All_ _right_."

Danielle Chase is not easily shaken, nothing about her is timid or wilting; trepidation has always been reserved for her sister alone. So while unappreciative of, and admittedly uncomfortable with, this 22-year-old's close proximity, she is neither frightened nor entirely dissuaded from mixing with an older crowd. Her shoulders stiffen and her gaze diverts to the side, but otherwise she appears the same as she ever did.

"Later, Seth." Jordan speaks the words huskily, but he is casual in his comportment.

The friend Seth looks down at her, then at Jordan, kind of laughs, and then removes his arm and walks away, nodding at Jordan as he leaves. "Later Catalano."

Danielle sidetseps a little and then looks at him, "You didn't have to do that."

Without getting heavy or paternal he questions, "How many of those have you had?" indicating her cup with his eyes and an understated head jerk.

Danielle is not interested in being handeled, and to communicate this she boldly takes his cigarette from his hand – in response to which Jordan's eyebrows raise – makes eye contact, takes a drag, and hands it back. "I'm not counting," she says as she exhales. Jordan can't help but make comparisons...

Exiting the house, the curly haired brunette from earlier shows up beside them along with a friend of Jordan's. This girl is drunk and fairly irritating. The kind of girl who at sixteen sees herself as totally mature and so on the same level as 23-year-old guys, so much so she thinks she can boss them around. "_Danielle_!" she enthuses.

Danielle dispassionately makes the introductions, "This is Sheri." Jordan lifts his eyebrows at the girl, then nods a 'what's up' to the guy. Danielle addresses her friend, "Where's Lindsey and Jamie?"

"They went home," she shrugs, too lit to care that Jamie Was their ride.

Danielle loses her tough act when she hears she has been stranded. "_What_?" But no one really hears her because at that moment several more guys appear, talking to Jordan and the friend who's standing with the Sheri girl. As they stand there, the older guys are quite literally talking over the girls' heads, carrying on their conversation as if the girls weren't even there.

Eventually the conversation comes around to the one with his arm slung round Danielle's friend telling Jordan, "We're headed over to Kim's."

"_Oh my God_!" Sheri kind of throws herself on Jordan, "You should _totally_ come!" He steadies her, and then takes a step away.

"This chick's nuts man," one of them chuckles.

Jordan ignores the invitation and subtly tilts his head towards Danielle, "Hold on; I'll be right back." Jordan breaks away from the group and walks into the house; ignoring the girls, the guys continue to talk amongst themselves.

Having taken care of whatever he'd needed to – saying 'late' to the buddy who's place this is and bowing out of a previously arranged meet-up with a girl – Jordan returns momentarily, lighting a new cigarette as the group around the keg is finally motivating to leave.

"So, we're going to Kim's," the bearded friend says.

"Yeah," another says, pulling his keys from his pocket. "We'll meet you there."

"I need some cigarettes first," the one in the hat interjects. "You're driving man," he nods at the first guy.

Scratching his beard and half grinning, the one friend asks, "Did'ya see Lacey here tonight?" He gets some wry smiles in response and the group starts to make their way through the side yard and out to the street.

Jordan too takes a few steps to follow, then pivots to turn back to Danielle who's remained in place, now again standing alone by the keg. "Com'on," he says. "I'll take you home." She looks at him, around the emptying yard, then down at her remaining beer. The night had not turned out like it'd mean to, _why act like it had_? Decidedly, she tosses the plastic cup to the ground. He waits for her, then walks with her.

A few paces ahead of them are Sheri and the guy she's been hanging with. Jordan watches as his buddy walks with her to the cars, his hand round the back of Sheri's neck. He looks down at Danielle beside him, who is just then rubbing her eyes and yawning. This decides it. Jordan throws down his still-good cigarette, quickens his pace, and catches up to the twosome ahead of them. "Hey, Sheri," he says casually. "Got a cigarette?" She stops walking to look through her bag; the guy moves on, still walking towards the street. Eventually she finds one, then begins looking for a lighter.

"Jordan," the one in the hat says, pounding the hood of the car, "let's _go_."

Now having reached the others and his car, the friend turns round and he too calls out, "Come on." He rolls his eyes as he loses patience with the girl who's holding them up, "Let's get outta here!"

Still rifling through her bag Sheri stumbles a little; "Hold on!" The guy's head drops back in exagerated and disproportionate irritation.

Referring to the girls, to his buddies Jordan says, "I got them."

Fine with that, the friend calls back, "Kim's!" He unlocks his car and climbs in. Jordan nods. The guys load into the cars and drive off.

As he heads towards his own car Jordan nods to the girls, "Com'on." Sheri is still rummaging– "Forget it," he says.

Waiting for the girls, Jordan starts the car, which, Danielle notes, is not the car she'd always seen him in. This car is not red, it is not a convertable, and, to her at least, it is not Jordan Catalano. Sheri pushes into the back seat, followed by Danielle taking her place in the passenger seat. Shifting into gear Jordan looks into the rearview mirror, "Where do you live?" His voice is gruff, but only Danielle hears it.

"We're going to Kim's!" Sheri declares before her eyes roll from the dizziness.

Danielle knows very well he has no intention of taking them anywhere but home. "Just take us to my house," she says, leaning her head against the cool window. Sheri falls back against the seat and slouches into a – hopefully, sobering – slumber.

Jordan exhales – _this is not what he'd signed up for for the night_ – and making a left turn he heads for Angela's.

* * *

Driving down the familiar street, they pull up outside the Chase house. Sitting there, Jordan looks past Danielle through the passenger window and kind of studies the house – he has not been there for a long time. Danielle too looks, then seeks a glance back at Jordan, wondering what he's thinking, or possibly remembering. She starts to say something but the stopped car has aroused her friend.

"Hey!" she looks around groggily. Jordan rolls his eyes; he's ready for this night to be over. Sheri straightens up and leans forward into the front seat, "Do you think your friend will call me?" Jordan looks at her, then at Danielle, and after a pause gestures to the house with a slight nod.

Danielle gets his meaning and opens the door; "Right." She steps out of the car and proceeds to help her friend out. Once both out on the curb, Danielle pauses and looks at him, holding the door before she shuts it, "Thanks, Jordan." Then the cool act is up once more, "See you around." She shuts the door, and without a look in her direction Jordan Catalano starts the car and drives away.

* * *

_Posted 12/2/12_


	32. How many girls?

_**Scenes of J's dating life...**_

* * *

Late morning on a crisp Sunday in Pittsburgh, Jordan's taking his sister to breakfast. He and Lisa, bundled in layers, walk briskly down a city street drinking the coffee he'd pick up for them at the Greek market by his place. Jordan's hung over and wishing they'd set it up for dinner instead, but, though Lisa can still party when she chooses, she can, particularly after working a sixty hour week at the hospital, be a little judgmental; better just to leave it. He scratches the back of his head and squints into the bright sunlight as he tilts his head back. She looks over and without his knowing, studies her good-looking, slightly disheveled, proverbially water-treading baby brother. "Jordan..."

"Hm?" he asks around the cigarette he's in the process of lighting.

She looks at him, "How many girls are you seeing?"

Jordan glances in her direction as he exhales, "'Seeing'?" She doesn't respond. "Why?" Lisa says nothing, just arches a brow at him and continues walking. "What is your point?"

"You're not seventeen; and, you won't be ever again."

"Meaning?"

"You're too old to be under the delusion that people are expendable." Jordan disagrees that he does this, but he takes a deep drag and lets his sister talk at him. Which she does. "Why are you wasting all of your time and energy and interest on trivial relationships you're not invested in?" He glances at her, but doesn't respond. She turns to him and asks with direct purpose, "What's going on with Angela? Are you talking to her at all?"

He gives her a look — he's surprised she's going there. _Why would she think he was hung up on Angela? He hadn't thought about her like that in years. Not intentionally. No way she was getting in the way of something else._ "Some. Not really."

"Then move on. Find someone you can take half-way seriously."

"I take everyone _half_ seriously," he says wryly. "And—" Jordan pauses as he takes hold her elbow and steers her around an oncoming car— "Angela Chase isn't, a factor."

"Is being gorgeous still enough for you?"

He smirks as his brows rise, "What was that?"

She flicks his ear as she patronizes him, "The hot guy that girls fall over themselves to be with, so you never have to try or meet expectations, or make compromises or—"

Closer to amused than offended, Jordan looks at her, "You don't know what you're talking about."

Lovingly, Lisa stares him down, "You only have to work when you come across someone as exceedingly beautiful, and even then, I'm sure, it's just obligatory."

Jordan has no interest in being preached at for being good-looking. Particularly not from her, the girl every one of his friends would do next to anything to be with. Tino especially. Okay, so Jordan knew what people thought when they looked at him, and yeah, he knew what to do to play it up — an eyelash bat here, a raspy whisper there, long extended glances in close proximity — but it was all so stupid to him. He knew it didn't mean anything.

Maybe people do treat him differently for it, but it's their dumb fault if they do, he never asks for it. Not outright. And he absolutely rejects the accusation that he functions any differently in relationships because of it. He tries to be a decent person, and alone with a girl he puts in the effort and time. Lisa's been tied up in the same relationship since high school, and all that monogamy can go to her head. Not being her and Ben to her means there's something fundamentally wrong. He's got to reign her in before she gets, how she gets. "Lis," he reasons.

"I've seen it," she counters. "Who was that _one_? The _model_?"

"Evan."

"Right. Evan."

"What about it?"

"Was _that _going anywhere?"

"It went to Paris," he retorts. To Paris and to New York. With some unexpected turns. Evan was cool as anything, and unbelievable looking, but yeah, okay, Jordan himself didn't see that one lasting.

"And that girl, last summer?"

"Which girl?"

"'Which girl?'" she mocks. Jordan rolls his eyes in acknowledgment that he's just not going to win with her today. "The high school math teacher?"

"Middle school, science." He drinks his coffee. "Charlotte."

"Right. That was never going to be anything." Jordan didn't love the way she said 'anything.' They'd had a pretty great summer. She was surprisingly game for her demure and quiet exterior. _Did every 'thing' have to be a _thing_?_ Lisa herself isn't married. Not actually. And fuck it. He's twenty-three._  
_

"You said you liked her," Jordan remarks casually. No longer at all invested in any of these past flings or things, he's merely playing devil's advocate with his currently too-opinionated sister. Lisa isn't always like this — mostly she lets Jordan be Jordan, but she could climb a soapbox on occasion. And something about his recent breakup, or the lingering smell of alcohol and his slightly reddish eyes, or maybe something else entirely, has done it for her today.

"Sure I liked her. She was cute, and pretty, and wore actual clothes," Jordan shoots her a look as that was a clear dig at some of the others she's seen him with. "She had two masters degrees and a — what was it? National credential?"

"That your loving way of sayin' I can't hang with a college grad?" he's teasing her again. Jordan's long past any insecurities he once had about school. Once he got the reading thing down that was good enough. He finished school at eighteen and hasn't had a moment's regret since. Every now and then he even picks up a book. So Lis can make all the hints to social class by degrees she likes, 'cuz even if she meant it, which he knows she does not, not really, it'll never get under his skin.

In response she just gives him a look, the look that concedes that Jordan has the quality to seamlessly "hang" with any person, any crowd he chooses — which he often does — but that what she's driving at is long term compatibility. "You know who I liked?"

Ready to be shocked Jordan asks dully, "Who?"

"Gretchen."

"Gretchen? What was that, two years ago?"

"Two years and twenty bimbos." He makes another face. "Yeah. I liked her; crazy hair, big glasses, the sleeve tattoos on both arms."

"You liked she made her own clothes."

"I just liked her. She was cool. _Not_ like the PR girl."

"Liz."

"Yeh," Lisa half scoffs. "Mouthy." Jordan laughs.

"So, that's what you're after, a tattooed, skateboarding hair stylist."

"They're all tattooed J."

"Not Casey." Lisa rolls her eyes and lets that one go. She's not touching the subject of the blonde, dimpled waitress that eviscerated Jordan when she left him for not being together enough. Still now he wasn't sure if it had been love, but it's not a name he ever lingers on for long. Though Tino never seems to let it rest. "Not Sara." Sara Roberts was the doe eyed, sweet faced friend from nursing school Lisa'd set him up with a few years back when she'd been pushing Jordan to get out of his party girl phase. They'd seen each other for a couple months till she ended it, citing the excessive drinking as grounds. Lisa still wasn't entirely over it. He moves on. "Holly was cool." Holly, the red-headed, hiking, rock climbing, guitar playing DJ who worked the climbing section of the independent outdoor sporting goods store. She had the best laugh, a sharp tongue, and was up for anything. He can't remember why it went south.

"Never met that one."

"You liked Avery." She looks at him for a reminder. "Riding instructor." That had been earlier this year. She had one of those low raspy voices, he loved it. And he'd learned to ride.

"Sure."

"You did."

"I'm sure. And who'd you just break up with?"

Jordan makes a face at her rhetoric, clearly she knows who she means. He exhales. "Teagan."

"Right." He wishes she'd just get to it. "I'm glad you're out of there."

"I was never _there._"

"You're telling me you weren't living with her? For over a month you were never home."

"Not true."

"She was crazy."

"She wasn't crazy." Teagan was a tattoo artist. She'd done two of Jordan's. She rocked an ever chicly sharp 1920's bob, and only wore clothes that showed off her massive piece of brightly colored body art that spanned across her entire chest, both shoulders, and down her arms. There was a silver stud in the crease above her upper lip, that made her squinty smile even greater. In many ways she was the most adult person Jordan'd been with in some time. Her business, her finances, her responsibilities, all really under control and together, but then there was the other side to her. She would start fights, wasn't afraid to brawl or get thrown out of clubs, and generally excelled at creating mayhem. Jordan had really been into her, the passion was intense, and once he was with her he'd felt how tame he'd been for so long — he'd have to go all the way back to Erin in, what was that? '98, or maybe more recently in Mexico Anna, or Anissa, to name someone else he'd really let loose with. But, in the end, she was too crazy. Lauren, who'd come after Erin and after a relapse with Angela, was wild, and definitely up there with the party girls, the catalyst really for Lisa setting him up with her nursing school friend, but the voluptuous, raven haired, blue-eyed, fun-loving Lauren wasn't confrontational. She wasn't a chair thrower like the compact Teagan, or a punch thrower like Anissa, and she didn't get in people's faces like Anna, or Erin. Suddenly Jordan's maybe seeing a little of his sister's point. Not that they were all like that. Most of them weren't—

Jordan isn't phased when his sister pointedly asks, "Don't you want to be happy?"

"Not everyone's had it figured out since sixteen," is his blithe retort.

Her sisterly concern is all over her face when she adds, "I just see you as dangerously apathetic."

"Nice."

"Can't any of them be real?" she queries as she looks back at him as she passes through the door he's holding open for her, entering the packed café.

Jordan cocks a brow in his big sister's direction, "How many do you think there are?" He had a feeling she was blowing this out of proportion; to him, nothing he was doing seemed out of the norm. In truth though, this list of memories she'd walked them through hadn't even covered all the mentionables. First off there was still Lucy, the flaky, flighty fashion school student who'd come between DJ Holly and waitress Casey. Also not mentioned were any of his exploits in Mexico, namely Maidel, the warmly self-possessed university student home to visit her family over holiday, who come between beach bum ex-patriot Anna Johnson and resort worker slash surfer local Anissa Morales, who'd been followed, upon his return to the states, by Gretchen, then Liz, then Evan; then Charlotte, then Avery and finally Teagan. Not to mention all the girls who'd come between. Jordan doesn't see himself as doing anything wrong. All those girls he'd spent time with out of bed, fully clothed. He'd eaten meals with them, smoked cigarettes, had conversations and listened to music with them. He knew their last names. Hell, he could spell them. So they didn't work out, it wasn't from a lack of interest. Or whatever Lisa was getting at. And she couldn't fault him for uniformity. And, if in the end they didn't last, he'd walked away with a couple tattoos, some mixing skills, a little Spanish, some surf lessons and a pretty convincing cowboy seat with a couple choice headshots. And no hard feelings. Lisa was just taking it all too seriously.

Tying her hair back in a knot she answers him, "Total? I bet you're well above forty, probably fifty." Standing in line Lisa turns and looks at him, "Or am I really underselling your popularity?" Jordan's not going there.

"So," he asks, getting to the point, "Whadd'ya want?"

Her eyes narrow for want of clarification, "For breakfast?"

He rolls his eyes and responds in irony, "Yes, for breakfast. What do you want for breakfast, sister sledge hammer."

"That 'cuz—?"

"Cuz you keep driving the same point into the ground? _Yeh._"

"I want you to shape up and take someone seriously."

"Hey, I just got out of seven weeks of 'serious.'"

"Well never mind then," she says in feigned impressment.

He orders them two more drip coffees, then turns back to her, "Anything else you need to butt into?" She looks at him, considers, and decides 'one thing at a time', and only smiles. Scanning the chalkboard menu hanging behind the counter Jordan shakes his head and laughs at the idea of it, "Angela Chase."

_Posted 12/27/12_

* * *

_**Moved from a separate chapter and combined with this chapter**  
_

* * *

**_Later that same year..._**

Jordan, with product in his hair and wearing a black leather jacket, walks into a gallery opening holding his girlfriend's hand. Cami Nguyen, an associate at the gallery, and an artist herself, is handsomely dressed in dark jeans, hand-embellished espadrilles, eclectic, low hanging earrings, and a silk, bright rose-colored modern twist on the hanbok. She makes them herself and hand paints the blossoms with her grandmother's calligraphy brushes.

In his tattered jeans, crisp white tee and the motorcycle jacket his uncle had passed on to him when he graduated from Liberty, and with her in tow, brightly and uniquely made up, they make a striking pair, hip, cool, and rock and roll. Cami set it up for his band to play the opening, and they breeze through the crowd, through the ground floor and up to the lofted space where he and his band mates had set up earlier that day.

* * *

After the band's set and the exhibition had been viewed, in the after hours of the opening, the gallery's lights dim, the DJ takes over, and the party takes off. In the crowd is Jordan with Cami, drinking vodka tonics, saying "hey" to all the people they know, and getting down - a little - to the beats.

This is not a world Jordan would have seen himself existing in, had he bothered at all to try and picture his future. But every step that brought him here, in retrospect, seems a natural progression. And, candidly, what it was was sex. Sex and liquor, and an approach to dating he'd adopted at seventeen, tried with Angela and confirmed with Chelsea. Namely, _don't date yourself_. Unconsciously, dating had turned Jordan into something of a cultural anthropologist. Meaning, that if a person were interesting Jordan'd share a drink, or a smoke, or both. If the person was female, and attractive, and game, Jordan might take them to bed. This open door policy to life — partially a direct result of hanging with Tino, partialy owing to Jordan's general 'come as you are' approach to everything, and partially to the undeniable positive influence opening up to Angela Chase had had on him — opened doors. Jordan Catalano is not the societal chameleon, vanguard and iconclastal figure that is Tino Mourlot, but never one for staying in place, Jordan's progreesion through life is one of forward motion — new things, new places, new style, new girlfirends, and with them, new worlds. Or, technically: new acquaintance — new party — new scene — new girl.

But social fluidity aside, essentially and fundamentally _he_ is the same. Always and forever. Just on the outside of things; observing life with a bemused, sometimes mocking air. He'll always be the kid his mother left and his father— He was good with his hands, quick to flirt, and slow to speak. He'd thrown off his virgnity at thirteen, fallen in love at seventeen, scraped by in high school, and generally lets things roll of his shoulder. He loves music and people who can play it, has little patience for those who make scenes or create drama, and dislikes predictabilty, in any form. Jordan wants to be happy; he does not want to be complicated.

Surveying the room Jordan does a double take as he thinks he spots somebody he knows. He squints a little to get a closer look. He's pretty sure it's her — she's blonder now. He hasn't seen her in forever. He turns to Cami and grinning, says, "Hold on." He takes the lime from her glass, and bites into it; "Be right back."

Jordan approaches the girl, leans in close and says into her ear, "Hey," he tugs playfully at a lock of her golden hair, "don't I know you."

The girl, slightly unnerved, turns round, and Sharon Chirsky finds herself closer to Jordan Catalano than she'd ever expected. He's grinning at her wryly; she tucks her hair, recovers from the surprise and smiles. "Jordan."

He leans in, his hand on her forearm, "Hey," he kisses her cheek.

Sharon, who hasn't seen Jordan in years, is surprised both by how friendly and personable he's being, as well as by how familiar and seemingly pleased to see her he is. She smiles; "Hey."

"What ch'ya doin' here?"

Sharon sips from her glass. "I came with a friend. You?"

He smiles, teasing "What? You didn't see me play?" Looking her over he explains, "My girl works at the gallery, the band I'm in played tonight. Here," he turns back towards Cami and signals for her to come over. Cami kisses the guy she's been talking with and comes and stands beside Jordan. "This i' Cami." Pointing to Sharon Jordan continues the introductions, "This is Sharon." He says this last part like it's funny, "We went to high school together."

"Hi. Nice to meet you," Cami says over the music.

"Same," Sharon responds, also staining to be heard over the house beats.

Jordan looks her over again, dazzling her with a smile and twinkling blue eyes. She really can't remember this level of charm and likeability — all she remembers is cagey, moody, sullenness. _This must be what Angela had seen. It's funny, now, to see him, so, energized rather than taciturn. _Jordan moves in, "What're 'ya up to?" Cami disengages a little from the conversation, giving them space to reconnect while she finishes Jordan's drink for him and dances a little in place, saying 'Hi' to people as they pass by, which Jordan does as well.

"You're popular," Sharon observes. True to form, Jordan ignores this remark. "This your scene?"

"My '_scene_'?" Jordan mimics. _There it is,_ she thinks. _That's a Jordan Catalano she recognizes._

"I just mean—" she starts to explain, but he cuts her off.

"Ya look good."

"Thanks," she says, allowing the conversation to move ahead. "I like that jacket," and he looks down at it as she reaches out and touches the lapel.

"Oh yeah?"

She smiles knowingly, "Prom? Wasn't it?"

Jordan kind of laughs, he'd forgotten about that. "Right."

"That's awesome. So," she says, still struggling to be heard over the crowd and the music, "you're in a band."

"Yeh," he clears his throat. "The Carousers."

"Any good?"

"Made it out clean," he shrugs. Meaning, she gathers, no rotten produce, or in reality, drinks, had been thrown at the stage area. She smiles; she didn't remember him as particularly funny either.

"Not really that kind of crowd anyway," she offhandedly contributes in a good-natured way that he can appreciate.

"Right. So then, guess there's no way of knowing." He grins. "You back in the city?"

"No," she shakes her head. "You?"

Jordan's attention momentarily strays from Sharon and back to Cami, whom he absently squeezes and wraps his arm around; she in turn leans into him a little. These small few movements convey a level of intimacy that does not occur in a casual relationship, and Sharon remembers when it was someone else he was casually familiar with. "Uh," he turns back to Sharon, not exactly answering the question that was asked, "construction. Moonlighting at a bar."

"And the band," she includes for him.

"Yeah," his absent smile is disarming; "And the band. Still in school?"

"Just finished, actually."

"That early?"

Sharon nods, "By a semester." She shrugs, "Save some money."

"There ya go," he affirms.

The conversation lulls. "So." They look at each other. "You talk to our girl any?"

That shared possessive of Angela elicits a brief smile from him. He nods, "Some."

Sharon doesn't bring up Mexico. Instead she tucks her hair and smiles, "She's doing great."

"Good to hear." Some friends making their way through the crowd spot Jordan and Cami and stop to talk after-party. It seems like the reunion's reached it's natural end. There's not all that much to say anyway. This is probably their longest conversation to date. She smiles again, and leaning in so he can hear, lays her hand on his upper arm; he really can't help but notice her cleavage as she does. But just a passive observation, the deep neckline does all but insist upon it. "It was really great to see you Jordan," she says warmly.

"Yeah; you too."

"Take care."

Once more he kisses her cheek, "Good luck with the whole, post graduation thing."

She smiles appreciatively, "Thanks."

"Hey," he says just as she was moving away. "You still talkin' to your boy Krakow?"

"Mm, hm."

Jordan nods. "Cool. Tell 'im 'Hey'."

"Sure," Sharon nods. She smiles once more and walks away wondering if she'd ever really known Jordan Catalano.

_Posted 12/30/12_


	33. Should old acquaintance be forgot

**Brace yourselves, I was going for the reality of a certain point in a young person's life, and characters might not be shown as their best selves; hopefully it still rings true... Hope you enjoy; feedback more than appreciated!**

* * *

The Christmas after Angela's graduated college she's come home for the holidays from a six-month internship in New York. After Mexico regular contact between her and Jordan Catalano has been non-existent, but there are occasional phone calls and post cards, scattered visits, and there've been a couple of nights they've spent together. But there have also been fights and differing points of view driving them apart. So while on paper they're still friends, for the most part they have slipped out of each other's worlds.

Three nights before Christmas, Angela finds her way to a house party thrown by the friend of someone she's stayed somewhat in touch with from high school. Amid the house full of strangers are the faces of distant memories of people she knew in high school — a friend from newspaper, a debate partner, a friend's ex-girlfriend, a cheerleader, a soccer player, someone with a locker by hers, that kid in the back of that math class… '_Strange_,' she thinks, '_how people who never knew each other come home four years later to the same Three Rivers house party, and somehow it's almost as if we'd known each other all along… Strange what time does_.' As she surveys the scene, Angela's friend hands her a plastic cup cocktail and the girls proceed to drink and mingle.

And with every new conversation she has with a prior-to-then stranger, Angela gets looser, and freer with the alcohol, topping off her drink enough times to make more than five drinks. And much more than five times she's recited the requisite rundown of post-matriculation accomplishments: university, degree, move to big city, competitive internship, blah, blah, blah. Through the course of the night — and the unyielding stream of cocktails — the repetition of the sounds that create the listings of these achievements inevitably imbues them with a sense of magnitude, sparkling originality, and general fabulousness they hadn't carried with them before she walked through the door earlier that evening. Angela is drunk. And not solely on alcohol.

Across the house in a different room and in a different frame of mind and spirit is Jordan, hanging with some friends, listening to a buddy strumming a guitar. Though Jordan's there, and still knows a good number of the people there, house parties in Three Rivers really isn't his bag anymore. For one thing there just comes a point when you're a little too old for it. He'd made his way there with some buddies who're back in town for the season, and he fits in as seamlessly as ever, but mostly now his time's spent in the city in clubs and divey scenester bars. The status and the hype of making the scene means nothing to Jordan, but he's young, played out on the suburbs, and out there living life.

From time to time Jordan, seated with bottle of beer at his feet, messes around on his harmonica, playing a few notes here and there in accompaniment, but really he is just listening to the music his friends are making, and occasionally joining the conversation of the small circle of people he's sitting with. Unlike others in attendance, Jordan Catalano has nothing to prove to himself, much less to anyone else. With beer, music, smokes, and friends, he's completely satisfied and self-contained. Not only are he and his friends not participating in their peers' litmus test of success, they're barely aware it's happening. Most of what is going on around them is passing completely unnoticed by Jordan and his buddies. Jordan Catalano leans back and opens another beer, his friend strums another song.

As she moves through the house to join some people she knows, Angela catches sight of him. Standing with her friends, holding her drink mid-air, hovering before her lips while lost in thought, Angela watches Jordan, waiting for him to notice her. Eventually she catches his attention, making eye contact as his interest wanders from his group and he with disinterest takes in the scene. Spotting her he gives her a warm smile, then returns his attention to the music and his harmonica, playing a few drifting notes and then slips back into the conversation with his buddies. She watches the corners of his eyes crinkle as he chuckles at something that was said.

Angela waits for further acknowledgement, but he does not turn back to her. He is not playing games, he just does not feel that pull towards her anymore. At some point, and he does not know when, it'd evaporated, no trace of it left. Like it had never been there. There'd been those times, when despite months of no communication, they would fall into each other's arms, and beds, and somehow it had always seemed right. Something about coming back to her, ending up overandoveragain with her, officially or not, had felt more than familiar, it was good. But not tonight. Sure, it's nice to see her, really nice, but he does not have the need to feel her by his side. This is not entirely new and altogether unprecedented, but whether it is the coolness with which it was done, or its magnification through the bottom of her soon-again-to-be empty glass, Angela feels it like she never has before. She stands in place, smile cracking as it turns from genuine to a mask of disappointment. Angela waits a moment longer, but no, there's nothing more he's giving her — not a 'hello', not a second look. She turns again to the bar.

* * *

An hour or so later, Angela is once again standing with a few people, having one of those liquored conversations of heightened genuineness and shrill exclamations. Jordan crosses the room with her in his sights, and as he sides up beside her he acknowledges the scene for what it is — the alcohol is the host to a self-congratulating orgy of cattiness and self-preservation.

When she notices him she turns, slurring into a smile and resting a hand on his arm, exclaiming in a painfully audible tone, "Oh my God, hi!"

"Hey."

"I didn't know you were here," she feigns as she fawns. Jordan allows her this fallacy; she's never really mastered drinking. "So, wow, how are you?"

Her affected interest irritates him. It's not in Angela's true nature to be disingenuous, but she can get this way when she's nervous or's been drinking, and between taking it or leaving it, Jordan'd leave it in a second. "Uh, good," he answers, looking her over as he does. To him Angela sounds like a housewife at cocktail hour: banal, vapid, and superior.

Allowing herself this small bit of honesty, but awkwardly giving it a coy twist, Angela says, "I thought I might see you here."

"Oh yeah?" Jordan's eyes don't seem to ever rest on any one thing.

Angela takes a sip, "It's been a while." She smiles ingratiatingly.

"Yeah," he nods. Jordan takes a drink, "Graduated?"

"Mm, hm." She glances at him, "Here with anybody?"

"No."

At this her bravado returns, "I haven't seen you in years, Still doing...?" She pauses with an imperial smile, "What _are_ you doing?"

Jordan smiles blandly and looks around, single-handedly cracking his knuckles, "Playing music. Doing some wood work."

She nods, and eyeing him as she takes another drink she asks with cavalier superiority, "Ever go back to school?"

_Of course she had to take it back to there. The one-sided fight she'd been passive-aggressively waging for years._ Jordan halfway sighs and for a moment looks away, above the crowd's heads. With a slight grimace, he returns to the conversation, "No." It isn't that Jordan doesn't like the answer, it's that he does not like the question. Over the years she keeps coming back to this. He flashes a mocking grin at her.

Angela can see his friends are kind of looking at her — the drunk girl talking too loudly in an affected voice — and this spurns the artificiality of her conversation, "_Oh_." She's said this as if she really pities him, as if this had been his dream and she is really sorry to hear it has not come true for him; her tone resembles that of a news anchor — the intonation of feeling is there, but it is hollow — if the party had been quieter it might have echoed.

"Well, if you remember," he says, completely disinterested in any sympathy — insincerity aside — regarding a life he's more than fine with, as his voice takes on a slightly sharper edge, "it was never part of my plans."

Angela nods as if knowingly, "Right. Right." She changes the subject back to her, "You know I just got back from New York. I've been studying there. Well, working." She adds, a little too loftily, "You should visit, we could spend a weekend—"

"Cut the crap."

Startled both by his bluntness and his rejection of her conversation, she stares at him, "What."

But Jordan's bored with her performance and doesn't much care if he's coming off as rude. She's coming off as false, which to him is much worse. "Just, give it a rest Angela. Who do you think you're fooling? I'm not interested in that fake voice. Don't flirt with me. I _know_ you."

Left exposed and humiliated, the tone has drained from her voice, "What does that mean?" Jordan takes a look around: his friends are still watching neath lowered lids and from the corners of their eyes. He growls a sigh, irritated to have been a part of even such a small scene. He takes Angela's arm at the elbow and walks with her around a corner where they are alone. He speaks to her firmly but calmly; he is not angry or cruel at the beginning, but the tension escalates as he progresses; he is not entirely sober himself. "Angela, you're growing up but you still see me as seventeen. I'm not lost. You don't get to save me. Or pity me. Or pretend to be embarrassed by me. I'm sick of this," he searches for the right word, "condescending bullshit — like you've made all the right turns and I'm wallowing in this—" He regroups, "I don't slack off. And _you_, you don't get to think you're further ahead than me. You're still this scared little girl who doesn't know who she's supposed to be, what she's supposed to feel, or think, or want. You're scared. You're still timid and," he thinks again for the right word, "trepidatious, and your little jokes just show how scared your really are. Scared or angry." He looks at her, "Or maybe just hurt that things finally ended up as they did."

"'Ended up'? I _left_. I'm not waiting around for you to get it together. I'm not following you around like a puppy anymore."

"Look around Angela," he says sharply, "no one's asking you to."

That hurt, and so she fires back. "Look at you," she sneers. "Hanging around this same town, same friends, wasting your time; same old 'whatever happens happens'. _Please_. It's a waste. Aren't you just so sick of this lethargic life? Where are you going? You know what," she says as she stares him down with disdain, "I _am_ embarrassed for you. And_ no_," she adds, "I _don't_ see you as seventeen anymore; you had potential then." She'd meant that to sting. With drinks and her wounded pride she's past the point of being able to curb or edit herself. The weapon choice was calculated, the wound, and even this war was not. It'd happened so quickly this fight. They'd fallen right into it, even as if it had been lying in wait for them. And there was no stopping it now.

Scorning her, but in total control of himself, with measured emotion Jordan says to her, "You're a sloppy drunk and being a real bitch, Angela."

She turns on him fiercely, "Don't you ever fucking call me again." Jordan looks at her dully, and just walks away.

And more than six years of – everything – just. Stops.

* * *

_Posted 11/27/12_


	34. Put on your red shoes and dance the blue

**A/N:** _Nothing crucial, just a little glimpse into another part of Jordan's life (at age 24). Not fully developed. [Could have a little more description than needed as this is just the outline of a life he's living between other chapters.]_

* * *

On a city street in downtown Pittsburgh, a few doors up from a walk-in café, a girl of twenty-two or so, carrying a cup of coffee drops her cigarette butt and hurries down the street after a guy she's spotted. The strides she takes with her elongated legs catch her up with him in short time. "Hey."

Jordan stops, and turns. Before him is a woman in jeans, European unisex suede boots, a thin white tank and trench. Her thick dark hair is lose and wild about her face, which, though half hidden beneath dark oversized aviators, is clearly striking. And a bit other worldly. He turns more fully towards her.

"We met at that party last week. Francesca's." Her voice is low and steady, like a still moving stream. He loves the sound of it and wonders what shade of brown her eyes must be behind those impenetrable lenses. Jordan stops and thinks back: _Had they met? Had he been at that party? He knew a Francesca, through other people. Wait, that night on the rooftop, with the neon, DJ, and lights and booze and the artist population of city central Pittsburgh_. He thinks they did meet. She was in black. And her top was low cut, but he can't remember if it was in the front or the back. Honestly she hasn't got much chest, at all, but in that 1970's urban androgyny that was unmistakably hot. She is thin, but every part of her is muscle he is sure. It's sexy. Quietly, modestly, undeniably sexy. Even more so because _she'd_ stopped _him_.

"Yeah," Jordan's throat clears, "hey."

She holds out her free hand to him. "Layne."

He shakes it. "Jordan." Once more he takes note of just how attractive she is. He smiles at her.

"You headed somewhere? Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" She lifts the still untouched cup she's holding.

"Sure," Jordan nods. "Why not."

With a tilt of her head they head back to the café several entrances back. "You live in the neighborhood?" Jordan shakes his head.

"Not right now."

...

Fixed with two coffees and her pack of Parliaments, Jordan spends the late morning walking through the city, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and talking with Layne.

"So," she runs her free hand through her hair at the roots, "how often do you play shows?"

"Ah," Jordan pauses to take a drag, "every month or so, if we work at it."

"And other than the band?"

"I'm working residential construction; I tend bar weekends."

"Which one?"

"'s a dive." Jordan's left arm rises to scratch the back of his head. As he does so she catches a glimpse of his watch. To his surprise, and unexpected pleasure, in an unanticipated act of familiarity she takes hold of his wrist and looks at the time. He watches her do this, the electricity of this relative stranger so close to him in the middle of the street this sunny warm morning curses through him from the spot where she's made contact.

Her face changes when she sees something she does not want to in the hands of his timepiece. "Listen," and her tone is more business like as he sees her mentally and physically extracting herself from the conversation, "give me the name and I'll swing by. It's just, I've gotta take my car in."

"What're you driving?"

"'66 Volkswagen square back."

Jordan's amused smile at hearing this isn't something he can curtail, but his response is detached and earnest, "I could take a look."

The boyish, self-possessed beauty with the slightly foreign sounding tongue looks at him, "You know 'em?"

He shrugs in his black cutoff tee. "I know cars."

"Actually, that'd be great."

Jordan nods. "Where we headed?"

Layne looks at him in surprise, "Have you got a tool set on you?"

"You don't …? Nothin'?"

Her smile is almost a laugh, "No. But, uh, I'm three blocks from here; I guess you could…"

"Yeh," he nods.

"…Take a look?"

"Yeh." She points them in the right direction and they walk. "So, what're we dealing with?"

"It's been making this squealing noise."

"When you start it?"

"Yeah, but not just." He likes that she's tall. Compact. Gorgeous and very much a woman, but paired down and not girly at all. He likes too that she hasn't been flirting with him. He likes that it's coffee they're drinking not cocktails and they're talking life and the world and the city, not bullshit she has to giggle at. He can't picture she ever giggles. But he's starting to picture other things.

"Could be your drive belt."

"Sounds right to me," she asserts. She hasn't got a clue. He chuckles.

"Really though, no wrench, pliers? Screwdriver?"

"Probably one of those."

He laughs again. "Okay. Hardware store. ASAP."

...

Having first stopped by a corner store to pilfer the limited tool supply they offered, they walked to her four-story brick walk up and got to work on her car shaded beneath the flowering Franklin tree she's parked under.

He's identified the core of the trouble and has set about fixing it as best he can with his limited resources.

Looking under the hood Jordan asks, "How'd you score rent control?"

"It's a sublease. I got it through work."

"Yeah?" He emerges and wipes his greasy hands in the dark fabric of his shirt, "What do you do?"

"I dance." Jordan deliberately avoids taking the perfunctory glance in her direction, "Oh yeah?"

"I'm a soloist at the the Pittsburgh Ballet Theater."

He hadn't expected that. That actual ballerinas were out there in the world going to rooftop parties and picking guys up on the street. It makes sense though. Looking at her she's absolutely a ballet dancer, though he would have pictured someone a little more polished, a little more closed off and precious. "Ballet?"

"Ever been?"

He shakes his head. "No. _ Get that a lot?"

Layne takes her a drag, "All the time." She exhales, flicks ashes from the butt, and leans against her car, such a dark forest green it almost looks black. "People are always very interested to hear you're a dancer," she takes another long drag, "but they never actually set foot in the theater."

Jordan scoffs appreciatively, "Sounds about right." He returns to the engine and uses the newly purchased ratchet to make some final adjustments. "Okay, so," he straightens up, "that should do it. For now anyway. Should probably get a new belt eventually. And take a look at some of those pulleys, but that's all easy self fixes. You should be good for a while." He hands over the wrench, "You're gonna need to hold on to that."

Layne shakes her head in muted wonder, "That's great, Thanks."

"Well," he wipes his brow with his forearm, "you should prob'ly make a few adjustments when you got all the right tools handy, but this'll keep you on the road." He slams down the hood. "And save ya some good cash."

"Great."

Jordan flashes her a knowing smirk, "Not a lot of dough in dancing?"

"Uh, less than you'd think."

"I wouldn't think that much."

"Then go less than that." She smiles and he nods. "Let me take you to dinner."

There's a half-moment pause in which he looks her over, anticipating where this day is taking them. He smiles. "Done. But uh, I gotta work tonight. Breakfast? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. Gimme a time I'll be here." Jordan hands over his cell for her to input her number, which she does.

"7:30?" She hands back the phone.

He texts her his name, "Make it 7:40 and I'm there."

"Great." He extends his hand, she takes it. "Good to meet you. Again."

"For sure."

* * *

At 7:37 Jordan pulls up and parks outside her place. He's crossing the street as she comes down the stoop steps. "Hey there," he nods from behind his dark shades.

Layne smiles her greeting as she reaches him, "Hello." When she kisses the side of his face Jordan's a little off-game but he recovers. "Where we headed?"

"Breakfast?" he asks unnecessarily. "The Strip?"

She nods and hands in pockets they head down the sidewalk.

As they walk city blocks Lane makes conversation, "You been to the Warhol yet?"

"That a bar?"

"Museum. Andy Warhol."

"Don't know him."

Layne lights a cigarette and offers him one. Jordan accepts and she lights him up. "He managed the Velvet Underground." Jordan nods as he exhales; he does know who that is. "Well, other stuff too," she amends.

Carrying on the conversation Jordan asks, "So, it any good?"

"Oh; I don't know. I haven't been yet." She takes a drag. "I've heard it's great." They walk and in two more blocks he points them towards a café.

...

After eating they continue their walk through the city. As they walk they pass under a sequence of black and white banners periodically hung from city street lamps. Jordan's attention's drawn to one. He stops. "That's you?"

Layne's eyes follow his. "Yep."

Her banner, as are the others in the series, is split in two between a stark black and white photo of captured motion in classic costume, and in the other half, beneath the lettering 'Pittsburgh Ballet Theater' is a soft lit portrait of the dancer. Layne's features her dressed in a black tank and black leather leggings, her long dark sultry hair set loose about her, sitting on the floor in a white lit studio flanked by two does. Beneath her styled bangs her chocolate eyes gaze directly out, engaging with the viewer. The image is captivating. As is the same with each of the other banners, the dichotomy of the classic with the modern, the rigidity of the traditional contrasted with the edginess and ethereal portraiture of a modern dancer makes the images difficult to ignore or to look away from. Jordan's impressed, "That's big time."

Layne glances and then starts walking again, "The promotions for the new season; there's artwork featuring each of the principals and soloists. Very deconstructive."

He doesn't know what she means by this, but he's duly impressed by her in general. "Cool."

Walking home she tells him a little more about the company and their art director and publicity office's effort to popularize dance and bring relevance to the city's audiences. He remembers the "Dancing in the Streets" events of that summer, of which she'd been a principal. He hadn't made it to any, but they were free events in public squares in the summer evenings in which the dancers would perform updated pieces in modern dress to engage and interact with the public. Afterwards the company hosted DJ'd dance parties. The way she talked about them made him sorry he'd never shown up. He talks some about his current band, their style, and he bands he's played in before.

...

Outside her house again he says, in an off-handed manner as though it'd already been discussed and decided, "So, dinner. Tomorrow night?"

Layne doesn't skip a beat, "8:30."

"Make it 8:45."

"You got it," and once more she kisses his cheek.

"Thanks for the meal."

"Thank you for my car."

"Yeah, about that: you gonna drive a car like that, you gotta learn the upkeep. Saves ya cash and makes ya your own man. 'Course," he shrugs, "I never hung with any deer." His eyes narrow in that twinkling look of anticipation he gets, biting down on his lower lip.

Layne likes him as much as thought she would.

* * *

They went to dinner the next night...

And for drinks a few nights later...

And by the next week he was sleeping over.

* * *

A few mornings in to their nights together, Jordan and Layne are laying about her apartment letting the morning pass them by; she's in aged and thinning sweats, heathered grey on top and pomegranate bottoms, and he, barefoot in last night's jeans and white undershirt reclines on the sofa. She's on the floor reading the paper and stretching, flexing and pointing her toes, pressing her bent knees to the floor as she bends forwards, laying her torso flat across the ground.

"'Look'a me,'" he mocks, "'got no bones.' " He nods at her, "Can you do the, what's it called? Splits?"

"The splits?" she asks with incredulity. "Every dancer can do the splits."

"Okay, hot shot. Let's see." She looks at him and smiles. She opens her legs and moves into a perfect linear split. "Ouch."

"Well, dancing's pain."

"So, what's the worst part?"

"You ever seen a dancer's feet?"

"The fact you're asking makes me think the answer's 'no'.'"

"We're strong." She lifts her leg to her ear, "We make pain and hard work look beautiful and effortless. It's all there in the feet."

"Let's see."

Layne looks him in the eye and then pulls off her wool socks and rests them on his legs. He takes them in his hands and looks them over. "Jesus." Absently he rubs her calloused, blistered feet. "You been doing this how long?"

"Forever."

"You got, memorabilia? Programs, tickets, 'n stuff?"

She flips the page in her paper. "Yeah."

"Yeah? Let's see."

She doesn't lift her eyes from the page, "There's an album somewhere on the table behind you." Jordan looks at her then reaches back behind him and grabs it.

"This it?" She looks up then nods. Flipping through it, an album of head shots, promotional stills, programs and snapshots, he can't believe all this exists. The costumes, what her body can do, all the shows she's danced. "You're good. Huh?" His eyes drift over the ad spots for that summer dance series and another, very modern, very sexy, of her reclining in what amounts to a red tasseled bikini half draped in a black silk robe juxtaposed with a series of red point shoes laid out in white luminous display trays as if in a museum or high end department store. Below her is the company's banner line. He reads aloud the words printed in black below the vibrant image of the shoes: "'Put On Your Red Shoes and Dance the Blues.' That Bowie?"

"Mm, hm. That's _The Red Shoes. _It's not a full length ballet," she's still reading her paper, "I danced it in a show comprised of shorter solo pieces."

"It sad?"

"A lot of them are. She dies."

He flips to another. The page is a full shot of her face in intricate headdress, exotic makeup, and a jeweled and black feathered neck piece over bare shoulders. Beside it is a long range photo of her on point lifting one foot impossibly to the back of her arched head, held in place by a partner in red hued middle Eastern dress. Jordan reads the title, "'Nutcracker.' You're the star?"

"Soloist. The Arabian dance."

"So how come the whole thing's you?"

"More PR. They're all about promoting the dancers, you know, humanizing the company - engaging the viewer as well as just advertising the show. Everyone knows _The Nutcracker,_ and it has a built-in audience. It was a reworking of what everyone already knew to expect."

"Like this one?" There's no dancing in this next one-page at all. He studies the black and white shot of her and a male dancer, it's very modern; she's seated on his knee, in dark eye makeup, sex-touseled hair, short black dress, with him in black denim and leather. The photo is intense and the chemistry, whether real or constructed is palpable. The caption reads 'These Violent Delights have Violent Ends' 'Romeo and Juliet'. "Hot."

"Dancing can be."

There are others. Others of her and more for the company. Some are more traditional, like the one for _Gissele__, _and others are modernized by photos of dancers taken out of context and in real settings, such as the shots for _Little Red Riding Hood_capturing the dancers in real woods. The one for _Swan Lake_ is the most haunting, and evocative, featuring the prima ballerina almost nude her gossamer dress so ethereal, submerged below water clinging to an intricately carved wooden swan.

Flipping through these pages Jordan thinks of the worlds and stories these dances must tell of, and how little room he's ever left in his life for narratives. _What has he been missing? What would he be missing just sticking to blue collar bars and rock clubs?_

* * *

It does not take them long to slip into a life together. She goes to his shows, he gets to know the ballet world. They go to parties and clubs, living in the grunged-up glamor of the downtown arts district. Satin and leather, rock and concertos, slicked hair and scruffy faces.

Tino loves her, her friends think he's perfect, and he comes into his own even more when he's with her. Relatively still young though he is, Jordan's his own man. Ever more mature than his peers, he seems past the stage of random hook-ups and moves seamlessly back into coupledom.

They never move in but they're in each other's daily lives. She's come to his work sites, he's at her place a lot before she goes into to work. He's busy with her, taking walks, living their lives, playing music, cooking food. He loses contact with his dad, sees a little less of Lisa, and never thinks consciously of Angela Chase. Though the path that lead him here started long ago with her.

* * *

One morning of many Jordan lets himself in and comes out on the second floor porch to Layne's building where she sits reading with her roommate. Jordan, carrying two take out cups of coffee, greets the women. "Hello."

Layne, her hair messily tied atop her head, dressed in boy jeans, a moss vest and espadrilles, looks up from her paper, "Good morning."

"Coffee?" He holds a cup out to her, and nods a smile at her roommate.

Layne reaches and accepts, "Thanks," and to be a good guy Jordan offers his to the girlfriend but she shakes her head, appreciative of the gesture.

Jordan scooches in beside her and stretches his legs out before him, shutting his eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun beating down on him as the women continue to read, "Hey baby."

* * *

Several months in Jordan's outside the studio waiting for her after rehearsal. She emerges in her boots, leather pants and braless in a white tank. "Hey good looking." He takes her gear bag from her shoulder and she kisses him briefly, and they keep walking.

"I need to eat."

"Sushi?"

"Lebanese?" Jordan nods. Layne rubs her head. "Previews start next week. Gonna come?" This is the first full ballet to open since they've gotten together. She smirks as she glances at him, "Doubting you're ability to sit through it?"

"Never. I wanna see you in action."

"I'll get you an aisle seat."

Jordan laughs.

* * *

After months together, maybe five, Layne and Jordan are in his apartment. It is late afternoon and the room is filled with orange golden light. They've been quiet for some time and Layne looks at him. "We're not in love. Are we."

Jordan looks at her. This hasn't caught him by surprise and he isn't offended. He looks at her, really looking. He's quiet and deliberate."You're dead gorgeous. And sexy, and interesting, and laid back."

"And we've had a really nice time."

"Yeah," he nods; "we have. _ So, is that it?"

She blinks. "It doesn't have to be."

He crosses the room, moving closer to her, and looks her deep in the eyes. "I think you're great. _ I do love you." His lips are just a little ways away from hers.

"Stop." Layne kisses him, Jordan lifts her to his bed.

* * *

A little less than a month later Jordan sits atop a chair arm at her place and looks at her quietly, somber. "So, what's going on?"

Layne lifts her head and looks him solidly in the eye. She is measured and slow when she speaks. "Jordan. Cole's back." She swallows and he sits there giving her the time she needs. "_ And…"

"And, you're seeing him again," he finishes for her. There isn't any resentment or blame in his voice. He gets it. It's not something anyone's in control of.

She looks at him. "I don't know."

Jordan nods. "I get it." He's understated in this like he is in most things.

"I didn't think he'd be coming back." Cole had been a soloist in the company before he'd moved to Prague as a principal in the National Theater. They'd been together for a couple years before he'd left. They'd danced the leads in _Romeo & Juliet_ together the year the company was in transition. The reviews had said "electric."

Back in town and coming back to the company, he's looked her up. He's taken her to coffee, to a dinner, and to the park. She hadn't been looking for this.

He nods again. "I know. _ It's okay." Jordan reaches out and holds her face, looks her in the eyes, and kisses her long and slowly. "No hard feelings."

* * *

_Posted 6/11/13_


	35. New Girl

_**Nothing here is a favorite, but this sequence of scenes introduces - hopefully effectively - a new central character. **__**Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing, it's so appreciated! Work's about to get crazy, so it will most likely be a while before I repost. I'm planning on getting back to J&A in high school (but that's going to be a lengthy revision process), as well as moving forward with K&J, and getting back to the baby storyline. I will try to fit in Tino where I can :) But, I'm sorry to say, that at this point, I have no plans for Angela and Tino's mom to meet, not till years later. Take care and happy reading!**_

* * *

Jordan hasn't been on a high school campus since Angela Chase graduated. Pulling up now in, or rather, adjacent to, the Aspen High lot, he's not exactly sure what he's doing there. His buddy Silas who he's done some construction work with set it up — some girl he knows was looking for volunteers to build a greenhouse on site by the high school. And now, for a reason he's not clear on, Jordan's showing up this morning with his toolbox in tow.

Climbing out of his truck Jordan shuts the door behind him and starts for his kit in the back.

"Hey man, you made it." Jordan turns and sees Silas standing on the curb, cup of coffee in hand.

Jordan nods and smiles, "How's it going."

"Good. Here," Silas jerks his head in the direction of the construction, "let me hook you up with the girl who's runnin' this." Jordan leaves the box for now and follows Silas to the tented workstation that's been set up. Beneath the tent in the shade it provides is a folding table set with coffee, cups, bagels, clipboards with release forms and building plans, and bins of work gloves and hammers. More than a handful of volunteers have already arrived, and they're engaged in various degrees of employment. "Hey, Kate," Silas says to one of the girls. She turns when her name is spoken and Jordan is struck by how striking she is. Silas never said. Silas doesn't notice anything. He makes introductions: "This is Catalano. Cat, meet Kathy Reese."

"Hey." Jordan doesn't want to look away.

She smiles blithely and holds out her hand, "Hi." Jordan takes it and they shake. He notes first her manner of warm engagement while still remaining a bit removed, and second the feel of her touch. And her eyes — amazingly and incredibly blue. Maybe this is what people mean when they talk bout his eyes, something he's never gotten. At that moment Silas' phone rings; he answers it, excuses himself, and walks away, leaving Jordan looking at Kathy. He's not conspicuous about it, subtly's something Jordan's had down for years. Great face. "Coffee?" she asks. He nods and she leads him to the table.

He grabs a paper cup, "Thanks." He hadn't seen a girl, or really anyone older than the age of three, in overalls in years, but he decides he likes them on her, and he likes that the form of her body's temporarily shrouded in mystery because of them. Jordan fixes himself a cup of coffee while she multitasks: checking her clipboard, handing something off to someone else, sending a text.

"So," she says, looking up from her phone — her warm, steel blue eyes nearly stopping him — "have you done this before?"

Jordan's private thoughts have not distracted him from the conversation at hand, he knows to what she's referring, "I've worked construction; never built a greenhouse." He wants to know more of her. He wants to know what her laugh sounds like, what her drink is, what she tastes like and looks like, what she looks like when she cries, what she sounds like when she's pleased. What would it be to hold her? He's pretty sure he wants to know everything.

"Well, we're hoping to have it completed by the end of the week, so any time and talent you could give us would be a huge help." Despite her obvious, and understandable, level of distraction, Jordan notes that she is quick to smile and warm in countenance. She has that quality of making a person feel listened to. Despite that fact that he's barely said anything at all.

She hands him a sugar shaker when it's clear he's been looking for packets. "Thanks. So," he looks around, tasting the coffee, which is unexpectedly good for this kind of thing, "this is for the school?"

"Kind of. It's a community garden that the local schools will utilize and operate."

"So you're, what?" He drinks. "A teacher?"

She smiles sanguinely, "A gardener." She shifts her weight, "Listen, it's great to have you here. Catalano...?"

"Jordan."

She smiles busily, still distracted. "If you've got a truck there are some gifted materials we need picked up. If not, I think we're getting ready to lay the foundation. Excuse me." And she moves on.

* * *

Two days later the foundation's been laid and the framing of the structure is going up. Kathy's taken a break to take digital pictures as the work progresses. Jordan descends the ladder he's been working on to grab a beer from the cooler. He pops open the can and moves to stand beside her. Over the last few days he's had hardly a minute to talk to her. Casually he glances in her direction as she focuses the zoom.

"How's the beer?" she doesn't bother to look at him as she asks.

Jordan too continues surveying the project, instead of watching her. He takes another drink then inspects the label. "Decent. Good to have it anyway."

"Yeah, well, don't tell the district; I mean," she snaps a shot and refocuses, "technically we're off campus, but I'm pretty sure we're playing with taboos here." That word piqued his interest. "Keep it out of sight," she smiles as she brushes something away from her face. Her hair today is pulled back and tied up in a handkerchief. That thick deep brunette hair does so much to frame her face, but without it, it's all her. Bewitching, beautiful, blithe her. He sneaks a glimpse of her again; "Want to grab a few more after?"

She takes a step forward and snaps a few more photos. "I was going to go for a bike ride."

"Really?"

She looks away from the viewfinder and finally at him. "Do you have a bike?"

Jordan laughs. "No."

Now she gives him her full attention, really looking at him; "When was the last time you were on a bike?"

Jordan shrugs, smiling at her roguishly, not breaking eye contact, "Eighth grade?" Jordan hadn't been on a bike really since his friends began driving — benefit of hanging with an older crowd. He'd depended on his bike as a kid; it was his two-wheeled escape from that house, but cars trumped bikes and suddenly pedaling seemed childish and freedom meant four wheels and a V8.

"Uh, oh." She shakes her head in comradely disapproval. Jordan drinks again. And his imagination wanders… He finds himself remembering a time when someone told him it isn't always so important to be composed, or cool. That life can be, fun—

He looks at her with brow arched, "Got any solutions?"

* * *

Late morning two days later in downtown Aspen. Jordan's making his way down the sidewalk to stop by work for his paycheck. Across the street and a little ways ahead, he thinks he spots her. The girl he hasn't stopped thinking about. He quickens his pace by lengthening his stride; he needs a better look to be sure. She's in dark stockings and shorts, an oxford shirt and a navy crew neck sweater. She's carrying canvas grocery sacks; he can see the leafy greens shooting out. Girls and their vegetables. He crosses the street. "Hey there."

Caught off guard she turns and looks at him, "Hi."

"Jordan."

"Yeah."

"The building project," he prompts, helping her to place him, as it seems she's having some difficulty.

But she already knew. "Yeah." She smiles.

She's talking to him, and smiling, but she's not stopped walking, and the conversation's not exactly flowing. "Sorry, am I bothering you?"

"No. Sorry." She slows her pace and smiles genuinely, "How are you?"

He bites at his thumb, "Not bad." His eyes narrow, "Kathy? Right?"

She nods. "Katherine. Either's fine."

Indicating the grocery bags, "You heading home?"

"I don't actually live here."

"Damn town's expensive. Too many rich tourists." As they keep walking he shrugs, "Yeah, I get that's what keeps the lights on..."

"I don't live in state; I'm just here for the build." Katherine turns to him like she's just thought of saying it, "We really appreciate the help."

"Funny time of the year to build a garden isn't it — autumn?"

"Well, that's the idea, you can grow all year."

"Wull, it controls temperature, right? But, the plants still need sun," he scratches the back of his head, "with all the storms, isn't there way less light?"

She leans in, speaking to him in wry confidence, "I'm from California, I don't know about snow."

Jordan isn't sure if she's being ironic or if he's spending his time building something for someone who has no idea what she's doing. "Guess, it's a science lesson for the kids."

She smiles at his choice to be cavalier; "There you go." She shifts the grocery sacks she's carrying, "See you tomorrow?" Jordan stops walking, getting that he's not invited to continue on with her.

"Sure."

She smiles; "Nice to meet you. Again."

It gives Jordan pause, the way she can be amiable and attentive while simultaneously detached. She doesn't seem to be anything but vaguely interested in him — never rude and never cold, but, never gregarious or flattering either. He clears his throat, "Yeah."

As the building continues, Katherine pauses from her task and glances around at the friends and strangers both who have come to volunteer their time for this project. Her eyes catch on Jordan, and she takes a moment to subtly watch. The muscles in his forearm strain as he works the power drill. He pauses to wipe the sweat from his brow. She likes the dumb smile that appears on his face when his buddy Silas says something to make him laugh. But when Jordan seems to catch her eye line she looks away and continues with her work.

* * *

By the end of the week the greenhouse is built, the inaugural tomatoes and legumes have been planted, and now Kathy and the other organizers are hosting a 'thank you' party at a local pub. Jordan's sitting at a table with Silas and his friend Dan, drinking beers and talking. Jordan's attention wanders from the conversation and he scans the room until he spots her. Katherine's in the arms of one her friends who'd worked part time on the crew. Jordan thinks his name is Randal, Revvi, or Kendal. He doesn't care. She is laughing and his arm's wrapped tightly round her waist. Jordan watches her lean on his shoulder, he watches as—

"Not bad," Dan reflects, interrupting Jordan's train of thought, as Silas and he follow Jordan's eye line.

Caught off guard, Jordan looks away and clears his throat. "Yeh. I don't know."

Her hand's in his, wrapped behind her back. She's laughing again. Jordan takes a drink. He looks away. "They together?"

Mid-gulp, Silas shakes his head. When his mouth's no longer filled with beer he adds, "No. Kate doesn't date."

"What's that mean?" Silas only shrugs. "'Does not date'?"

"We're not bf's, but I've never seen her with a guy long term. She doesn't do that." Jordan tries to swallow this — it's not what he expected. He looks over his shoulder again and she's got her arms around the neck of another guy, snuggling and laughing. Sure, it doesn't look like anything real, but something in that itself makes her seem all the more unattainable.

…

She's in a booth with some others and as he passes by he stops and takes a seat across the aisle, setting his glass on his table. He sits, absently tracing his finger through the condensation, until she turns her attention to him; "Hey."

"How's it going."

"I think, I'm a little, past sober." He smiles. Katherine turns her body a little more in his direction. "So, thanks for the help."

"No sweat." He pivots his glass and gestures vaguely with it. "Ya know, 'f there's a not-for-profit community greenhouse bein' built for the children of said community to garden vegetables in," he drinks, "ya know I'm there." She laughs.

"That's really good to know."

"Well, yeah," he continues his dry jest. "'Cuz, that kind of thing happens all the time."

She bites her lower lip as her mouth spreads into an appreciative smile; "You'd be surprised." He blinks, watching the irony-loving-smile slip into a beguiling, if lubricated, laugh.

Jordan's sitting atop a wooden fence rail in a park, waiting to meet up with Katherine Reese for his first bike ride in something like twelve years. The wind is brisk, but as there are no clouds, the sun is beaming down, warming the otherwise chilly day. His cheeks and lips feel the bite of the gusts and he smells the air: cold, crisp, piney, and the promise of snow. Across the field he spots her, pushing two bicycles over the grass. He jumps down and crosses the distance between them to relive her of the burden of the extra bike. "Hey."

"You ready for this?"

"I hear it comes back to you." He flashes her a knowing grin in acknowledgement of his stoic bravado. Jordan then re-grips the handlebars and surveys the contraption. "You got two of these?"

"This one," the one she's now astride, "is mine. The other's my roommate's."

"So, you live here now?"

"Still couch surfing." She pushes off and begins pedaling round in circles. Jordan follows suit. "Attaboy," she chuckles.

"Just like riding a bike."

She looks back at him over her shoulder as she stands while pedaling and smiles wryly. This feels familiar. "D'you grow up in Colorado?"

He shakes his head, "No. Haven't been here a year. You?"

"Santa Barbara. Went to school at Santa Cruz, then Colorado College."

"Oh yeah?" They're still circling the park and she gestures to the street exit and he follows her into the bike path. "What'd you study?"

"Religious studies and philosophy."

"Double whammy." Jordan looks her over from a new perspective, "So, you're religious?"

Kathy chuckles, "You just jump right in." They're on the street path now, making their way down to the stream. Kathy answers his question, "Not particularly. Theology's different from religious studies. After that I studied environmental science and American culture." They ride in silence. "So, Silas says that you work on the slopes."

"Yeah." He pumps his breaks. "It's a change from Alvarado."

"Veracruz?"

"Uh, huh. Drove down there for a summer and stayed more 'n a year. _ You snowboard?"

"I'm a little rusty — not always in the budget." He nods. "While I'm here though, I'm hoping to pick it up again. But—" She speeds her pedaling and deftly swerves round another cyclist. "I'm not really an athlete." He smiles at the irony of her timing.

"Got me on a bike," he observes. For effect he pedals past her. "You staying for the snow?"

"Looks like it. For a while."

"So, uh," he questions, "what exactly do you do?"

"You mean, why can I couch surf and build hot houses at will?"

"Something like that."

"I work for a non-profit, but I can pretty much do it anywhere, and, for a paycheck I'm a freelance indexer. Which, also, I can do from anywhere."

"'Oh'." Jordan intentionally emphasizes the flatness of his response.

"You're wondering that is," she smiles.

He swerves in front of her, "Pity the fool who doesn't know what a freelance indexer is."

"Okay, so, in a nonfiction book, where there's an index at the back, telling what pages any given thing can be found on, someone has to create that." She tugs off a leaf from a low hanging branch as she passes; "I do that."

"You go to school for that?"

"I mean, they want someone with a degree, but no, you just do it."

"How'd you get the gig?"

"You know Kurt Vonnegut?"

"That Slaughterhouse Five?" Tino'd been shoving that book in his face for years. In high school Tino'd gone through all those books in the span of a couple months.

"Yeah. So, in Cat's Cradle, on the plane, there's this wife who does it as a living." Jordan stops when she stops to brush her hair out of her eyes, balancing with both feet on the ground. "It had never occurred to me that that was a job. I knew I'd be good at it, so I looked into it, and now I do it. It's great 'cuz I can do things like drive to Colorado, crash at a friend's, and," she adds for his benefit, "garden."

"So, you're really using those degrees." She laughs. They continue riding. When they stop by the creek to take a break and take in the scenery, he looks over at her, "'m I gonna see you again?"

"Are you 'seeing me' now?"

…

Walking the bikes back to her car, Jordan stops when he sees they're heading towards an ancient, powder blue Volkswagen beetle. "That's not your car."

"Yeah it is." She props the bike against the car and pulls out her keys from her leather satchel purse.

"Of course it is," his eyes roll good-naturedly as he smirks. "How long've you been driving that?"

"Since I was 17." She opens the car, "My grandmother bought it new in 1963." Katherine turns to remove the front tire from the bikes.

"Didn't know they did that," Jordan reflects as he watches. Kathy stores the wheels in her backseat then goes to pick up a frame, which he lifts easily for her. "How'd you get these here?"

"Here," she helps him set the first frame on the rack atop the roof, and he goes to work on the second, strapping them on and setting the clamps. Jordan pats the roof as he finishes, "How's it holding up?"

"Well," she wipes her hands off on her hips, "I have a great mechanic, and if you take care of it — and give it lots of oil — it does great."

"How's it do in the snow?"

"Yeah, I haven't really tested that yet."

"Being from California and all."

She shrugs, "They have snow in Germany."

"Yeah, guess so. So, uh, thanks for getting me back on two wheels."

"Of course."

"We should do it again."

"Well," she moves behind the opened driver's door, "I do it every day."

"Okay, so, I got your number." She nods. They smile. She gets in the car, shuts the door, and heads home.

* * *

Weeks later, Jordan's at a party, or, as the Aspen elite call it, a 'function'. There're candles, flowers, live music, cocktail wear, caterers, bartenders, and money. Jordan's as dressed up as he gets lately, which isn't very. He's in leather and his hair's slicked back, but he hasn't shaved, and he's in jeans and a tee. His days of suits and blazers, of trimmed beards and just-so product-shaped-hair are behind him, left in the clubs and theaters of the metropolis of Pittsburgh. Since Cami and Layne, he'd walked away from the hipply posh and was more than happy to live his life with scruffy edges, unkempt hair, and clothing that it doesn't matter if it's ripped. He'd never entertain this thought himself, but the Ruth s his face, and those eyes, allow him to get away with what he would not otherwise be able to.

When his companions head to the bar for refills Jordan lingers behind, leaning against a tall mirrored cocktail table. Through the crowd he sees her. And he sees her dress. It's bright, and short, and deep-necked and bare armed. He hasn't seen her since the bike ride.

He drinks more of the upper mid-shelf champagne the waitresses are parading around, and takes her in. She's quick to laugh and quicker to smile. She's poised but familiar and warm, breezy but sincere, and everything about her is down to earth, endearing, and real. And beautiful. Really.

Two of the girls he's there with return from the bar, dropping off a shot for him. The girls take theirs - as does Jordan - then head to the dance floor. Jordan remains, observing the scene, and, in his peripheral vision, keeping tabs on one skirt in particular.

As she stands with her party, absently scanning the room, she eventually spots him and makes eye contact. He nods a 'hello'; she lifts her hand in a motionless wave. Which he answers in the form of a tightlipped smile. At this point Katherine excuses herself and crosses the room to his table. Though he sees her coming,Jordan doesn't straighten up as she approaches. "Hey."

She tilts her head and smiles, fairly surprised to see him there, "Hello."

Looking her over, his eye catches every detail. "Like the dress." Jordan suppresses a smirk, he doesn't know her well-enough to be playfully smarmy. And the way she looks isn't a joke.

She looks youthful and surprisingly overtly sexy in that short green shift dress. It is shorter than he would have thought she would wear and he enjoys being wrong. It's made of bits of chiffon and velvet with brightly colored beads and rosy flowered accents; he's crazy about every busy detail of it. The straps are so slight, they barely interrupt the slope of her cream white shoulders. He has the suspicion that if he merely flicked at each strap the dress would fall right from her, dropping to the floor with a satisfying thud. And there'd she be: in heels and those sheer black stockings...

Her hair is loosely tied up and the messiness of it is alluring. It's both cavalier and ethereal, and it's a winning combination. What would it take for it to all tumble out of place? Her lips are painted a bright deep red, he's seen that on her before, and he's never more than now wanted to see made-up lips get smudged.

Katherine takes his compliment, "Thank you." She's friendly, but he still feels kept a bit at arm's length. She's keeping this strictly fraternal; any flirtation's not going far. Her fiery lips spread open and she smiles at him. "How's it going?" When she shifts her weight slightly the light hits the dress in such a way that he sees there are strips of dark fabric that are almost sheer, and from time to time the dress grants a momentary glimpse of her flesh. He loves that fabric. As he loves the rather plunging neckline.

Still though he doesn't break the eye contact, excepting one well-timed lash flutter; "A little better." He grins at her, as he knows that was a line. And Katherine lets it go.

Jordan straightens up and drums his hands on the table, "Champagne?"

Briefly, Katherine looks round the room, presumably back to her own party, before she looks back at him and answers. "Sure." He tightens his lips into a smile and shifts past her as he makes for the bar, his hand barely resting on her waist as he does. This is the first time he's touched her. She remains at the table while he heads to the bar.

Jordan returns in less time than it would take most people to get to the front of the bar line and be served. But this is not a surprise. He hands off her drink and takes a large drink from his own glass. She too takes a sip and looks again around the ballroom. "You know these people?"

Jordan shrugs, and drinks again. "It's not hard to get into these things."

"Really?" She takes another look around, "Seems kind of shi shi."

"Exclusive?" he clarifies. Her eyes widen in confirmation. "If you're a local, and you know a few certain people, you could hit one of these a month."

"For real?"

"The ski and sweater set like a little rustic element." He drums his fingers then scratches the back of his head, "Kind of boring though." He changes the subject, and glances back to where she'd come from, then looks back to her, "Who are you here with?"

She takes a drink; "I'm on a date."

"How's that going?" She gets that he's mocking her. She's getting that he does that a lot. She also gets that there's a part of him that would mock any date she was on. And a big part of her suspects that that's about as far as he would ever take it. In short, the little she's seen of him has done next to nothing to impress upon her that he's real — that he's anything more than a handsome face who kids around and messes around. "So," he starts up the conversation again, "you're still in town. You staying?"

"I don't know exactly."

"Still on your friend's couch?"

She shakes her head, "I got a place."

"That's not always easy to do." He leans in a little, "Listen," his voice deepens imperceptibly, "let me take you out. Dinner."

Katherine does not flinch; she looks him straight on and asks, "Who are you here with?"

Now Jordan does not hesitate. "People."

"A girl?"

Jordan concedes with a single blink. "Doesn't make me an asshole," his words and demeanor are pure cool.

"Doesn't make you terribly old fashioned."

His eyes narrow, while the corners of his mouth upturn, "Is that what you are?"

In response Katherine spins the stem of her glass on the mirrored tabletop, feeling his eyes on her. She looks up and smiles warmly, "I'm gonna go."

"I'm gonna call you."

She holds his gaze, then turns back to her party. Her dress is unexpectedly low in the back. The angle of her shoulder blades, the dip of her spine- But it's the motion of her skirt hem, short on her leg already, that does him in.

* * *

In late autumn, with three inches of snow already on the ground, Kathy meets Jordan for coffee. It's little more than a week since the swanky resort town event and Jordan's anxious to see her again. Coffee in hand they exit the café and walk the sidewalks of downtown Aspen. She's bundled in a coat, hat, gloves, a scarf, and boots; it's cute, but he feels compelled to observe, "You didn't grow up in the snow."

"I wasn't aware that had any significant affect on body temperature," she smiles into her cup as she tastes the coffee. They continue down the street.

"Mind over matter." Jordan continues, joking self-deprecatingly, "Think that's how that one goes." He feigns a confessional whisper, "Mighta' cut class that day."

"I can count on my fingers how many times I ditched class," she reflects.

"I could prob'ly do the opposite." She thinks this is funny and he gestures to a bench. She nods and they take a seat. "You ready for the season? One, two more weeks max."

"Mm, hm."

"You got a board? Renting's not gonna pay off."

"Karl's loaned me his sister's." He doesn't know who Karl is.

"You gotta come see me."

She blows on her coffee before taking another sip. Jordan notes the shape her lips make when she does so.

"You like running the lifts?"

"Sure." He drinks casually, "You meet a lot of people."

"I'll bet," she says wryly.

* * *

Somewhere between a couple more coffees, a breakfast, and a meet-up on the slopes, Jordan makes a call to Tino. Tino picks up when he sees that it's Jordan calling, "It's John Muir the mountain man!"

"Hey boy-ee."

"Sounds so wrong when you say it," Tino chuckles. "What's your temp over there?"

"We're at a balmy 26 today," Jordan says with a wry smile.

"26? You layin' out?" Tino mocks. "Chillin' out enjoying all 16 C's over here."

"No one likes a brag." Jordan scratches the back of his head, "How's Malta?"

"Well," Tino begins, "it's got fish, nets, and boats."

"And women," Jordan finishes.

"Check." Tino pivots as he paces. "So? What's a-going on Cat?"

Jordan drinks his coffee and leans back in his chair. "Met a girl."

"Oh!" Tino patronizes. "Name?"

"Kathy. Or, Katherine. I don't know."

"Profession?"

"Yeah, not clear."

"Well, this sounds serious," he goads.

"I don't know. Something to do with plants and indexes."

"Oh! Well, that could be so many things," Tino jests.

Jordan tries once more, "Something to do with Slaughter House Five. No. Wait, it was another one."

"Mother Night? Breakfast of Champions?"

"Those are weird titles."

"Yeah," Tino remarks in cold irony, "rip one off for your next band name." Jordan grunts appreciatively. "So, no idea what she does — here's hoping it's not double agent-ing for the Third Reich — but we've established great taste in books. (Though apparently not company.) Okay," Tino gets to business, "spectrum time: more like the ballerina or the waitress?"

Jordan scoffs. "You don't let things go."

Tino ignores him, "More like Teagan or like Dre? Drea was good for you." Jordan laughs. Tino would think that.

"Yeh, maybe," he affirms, still smiling, "but turns out she didn't think I's the same." While no two girls he dated long term were anything alike, Drea was nothing like any of them. He'd met her when he started playing in an acquaintance's band; she was the bassist for George Finds Trouble. She was a killer musician, and super laid back. And while she had a fit body and an interesting face, allbeit hidden behind oversized vintage glasses, she was a little bit of a tomboy and could be a little mumbly and hunched shouldered — not really what an outside observer would call beautiful or, at first glance, maybe even 'attractive', though, in her way, she definitely was — attractive. He hadn't thought about her that way at first, but playing in the band, hanging out with her night after night, it had just crept up. They were together for two months, till she decided that maybe Jordan was a little more experienced and adventurous than she, or 's willing to be. And she ended it. He'd stayed with the band for a little while longer, but mostly transitioned out and moved on to one he put together with some buddies. "And," Jordan adds, "maybe time to start forgetting about Cass." It was less than funny the way Tino wouldn't let Cassie the waitress go.

"Oh, life's so hard," Tino falsely commiserates. "You're so tortured. And—" he pauses for effect, "ya didn't answer my question."

"Uh, Layne, I guess." Jordan's not all that ready to make comparisons to past relationships. Something that hasn't started does not need to be connected to something that failed. But, maybe they do have a quality in common...

"Minus the dancing."

"Plus gardening and more smiling."

"Okay," Tino accepts good-naturedly. "I like it. So," he smiles as he fishes, "how's it going?"

"It's not." He exhales. "Coffee."

"Well," Jordan can hear Tino's grin through the phone lines, "you like coffee."

Jordan shakes his head, smirking in spite of himself, "Yeh," he says gruffly, "guess I do."

"Hang in there ħabib." Jordan laughs again.

"Talkin' to you's like—"

"Like the Rosetta stone's your bff?"

Jordan rubs his eyes and chuckles, "Something like that."

"Listen, gotta go. Later."

"Yup."

* * *

About two months later, Shane's flown out to Colorado to see his best friend and to get in some snowboarding. Jordan's called Katherine and invited her out to meet them for drinks. Jordan and Shane are already at the bar, working on hot toddies to recover from the mis-adventurous walk to the bar.

The place is packed. Some locals, some tourists, and the rest seasonals who like to think of themselves as locals. Katherine enters the second entrance and takes off her coat, hangs it on the already crowded coat rack, and makes her way through the bar. She spots Jordan and who must be his friend by the fireplace, and after her foot is stepped on, and successfully evading a drink getting knocked into her, she reaches them. Jordan turns from Shane and gives her his attention, "Hey Kid."

She smiles at them both, "Hey."

Jordan leans in and kisses her cheek, "Good you could make it. This is Shane." Jordan gestures to introduce her to Shane, "Kathy."

Shane gives her a head nod, and regardless of his intention, it comes off a little smug, "Hey there."

"Nice to meet you."

Shane gestures offhandedly with his drink, "Those're some blue eyes you got there, girl." Jordan turns his head to chuckle.

"Okay…" she says.

Jordan swings his shoulder in Shane's direction, "He's visiting from PA. Went to school together." Shane flashes an artificial quick-paced smile.

"Sooo, what?" he asks. "We getting weird tonight?" He looks from Kathy to Jordan, "Tequila?"

"I'd like to be the kind of person who's cool enough to take straight tequila shots," Shane's eyes narrow as he listens, "but I'm not. But, I can get weird on Bloody Marys."

Shane's brows raise high, "What is this, brunch?"

"Ouch." Shane eyes her, trying to form an opinion of her. "I can do a vodka tonic," she offers.

"That'll work," he says dispassionately, finishing his drink in one final swig. Kathy lifts her eyes to Jordan, who just shrugs and grins, biting his lower lip as he looks her over. "Let's do it," Shane decrees decisively, and signals the bar tender.

* * *

A week or so after Shane flew home, Tino calls Jordan. Seeing who it is, Jordan knows what it's about; he answers dryly, "Uh, oh."

"That's what all the mothers of daughters say when I ride into to town." Jordan smiles. "So, you ready?"

"Trudenowski's report?"

Tino doesn't deem it necessary to curb his enthusiasm; "You know it."

"Okay," Jordan resigns himself. "Go for it." His lack of interest tickles Tino.

"Ya sure?"

"Shut up," he says benignly. Tino chuckles.

"Okay," Tino winds up, "here we go: 'Pretty, not hot.' 'Fun, but maybe not game.' 'Grown up.' 'Great voice.' 'Easy to hang with, but priss potential.' 'Catalano-level blue eyes.'" He pauses for Jordan's response, but he says nothing. "J?"

"Oh," he clears his throat feigning surprise. "Am I spo'sed to say sum'in'?"

"He nail it?" Tino shrugs admitting, "Ol' Shane's not always the most generous judge of, anyone."

As he's not seventeen, Jordan doesn't much care about Shane's appraisal, so to keep it short he just says, "Sure."

Tino knows full well Jordan's confirmation of this depiction is hollow, as he knows he's only said it to say anything in order to move on; Jordan hasn't said all that much about this new girl, but he'd never sum her up with such an unflinching economy of language and sentiment, or at least not someone else's. So, as long as Jordan's giving dulled and unspecific answers, Tino's gonna ask a pointed question, just for the hell of it, and his own amusement. "Speakin' of 'nailing'…?"

"Shut it."

"'Cuz…" Tino spurs. "Seems like it wasn't all that clear…"

Jordan smiles in spite of himself, "Stop."

But Tino's taking too much enjoyment in it to stop; "I mean, I know you always play it close to the vest but…" Knowing any form of protestation will only egg him, Jordan says nothing and waits him out. Tino takes the cue and moves on, "Ya kissed her?"

"That would be a 'nope'."

"Cat, com'on. Grab her. Kiss her. I've seen ya do it."

"That's helpful, thanks." Playing off of Tino's humor, Jordan's response is dry and flat.

"Or," Tino takes on a more serious tone, "move on."

"Not much to move on from."

"Aww, I love when over-sexed model-types throw themselves a pity party."

Despite that Tino can't see him, Jordan looks about for rhetorical impact, "That what just happened?"

Tino grins, as always taking pleasure in getting Jordan's goat, "Close enough."

"Yeah; okay. Later."

"Keep me posted," Tino says factiously.

As he hangs up, Jordan matches Tino's irony, "Sure thing."

* * *

Katherine's hanging out with Jordan as he works the top of a quad chairlift on the west side of the mountain. She's holding a mug of hot chocolate between her mittened hands, while he interchanges smoking his cigarette and shoveling snow off the ground marker.

He exhales then steps toward the marker between oncoming chairs and asks another question as part of his ongoing efforts to get to know her, "You talk to your mom?"

"She died." Katherine drinks her cocoa.

He looks back over his shoulder, "Recently?"

"I was twelve."

"Jeez." He picks up his cigarette from where he'd balanced it on the railing, and takes another drag.

"Stomach cancer. She fought it for two years."

"That's rough." Jordan slows down the lift when he spots a father with two small girls approaching. "Your parents were together?"

"Oh yeah." She subtly waves his smoke away from her face, and he shifts to keep his cigarette away from her. "It destroyed my father. But then it was me, Dad, and Tom." Jordan's listening to her, but as he'd predicted, the little sister fell first, creating a perfectly unavoidable obstacle for the older one. Jordan hits the control to pause the lift and runs out to scoop up one girl while the father side steps back to upright the other.

"Thanks," says the man as he carries the little one in front of him as he follows after the his older daughter who's once again snowplowing to the trailhead.

"No sweat." Jordan nods, "Have a good run." Jordan restarts the lift. After doing so he looks back at her, "Your folks go to school?"

"Mm, hm. My mother was a lecturer at the city college. Composition and art history. My dad's a firefighter."

"You're close," he assesses, judging by her tone and demeanor as she speaks. She nods. He shovels the powder again.

"You?"

Jordan unnecessarily repacks the snow.

He removes his wool cap, wipes his brow, and scratches the back of his head. He takes a deep breath. "I saw my mom a couple years ago." He takes a final drag off his cigarette and drops the butt by his feet. He exhales, "She's a flake." Kathy looks at him, witnessing an infrequent moment of unguardedness. But he hasn't given it that much weight — he's just talking. "You cold?" She shakes her head, and takes another drink.

* * *

Weeks later Katherine's invited Jordan out for a drink with some friends of hers. She and Jordan aren't exactly best friends, they haven't been up to each other's places, and they both have other people who are bigger parts of their day to day lives, but they're getting to the point where they make plans to hang out, they'll have a dinner or a coffee, snowboard, or she'll stop by his work, either on the mountain or at the bar. Tonight it's her friends, her dive bar, and Jordan's making a conscious effort not to be too attentive. He's talking to her friends, occasionally looking around the bar at other girls, flirting a little — not with her, and making sure not to touch her. It isn't a challenge, but he has to keep it in mind.

At the end of the night, they are both drunk, he a little more than she, and he's walking her down the street to find a cab. Spontaneously he grabs her and dances a few steps with her in his arms. When he pauses he keeps her in his hold, but pulls back his head a little to take her in more fully. His eyes, a little hazily, move from her eyes to her mouth. He blinks. "I'm going to kiss you."

Katherine does not flinch. "I don't believe that."

Jordan grins roguishly, never taking his focus from her lips, "Oh yeah?" Through her winter coat he can feel her waist, slight and athletic. He wants to touch his icy fingers against her warm skin. To trace a line down her torso, to drag his fingers down her spine until she quivers—

"If you'd decided you really wanted to, you'd have done it, not said it. And probably before now, when you're too drunk to—"

He bites his lip in dazed anticipation, "I'm not too drunk for, anything."

She looks him in the eye, and blandly smiles, "Good to know." Patiently she reaches behind her back and carefully removes his arms. He releases her and she tilts her head, "Goodnight."

"You're leaving?"

"Uh, huh." The warmth of their breath blends visibly together.

"Right now?"

"The thing is," she says as she squares off with him, looking him straight on, open and honest, "I strongly believe in no missed opportunities."

"Oh yeah?" His eyes can't quite focus. "How d'ya mean?"

"Windows don't close that easily. If something's going to happen," she pauses as she looks into his eyes, "it'll happen on its own, on its own time." She looks away; "People have no business making a last-chance opportunity out of nothing."

Jordan'd stopped listening. "Kiss me."

"You'd never remember it anyway."

"Well, there you go," he says rakishly. Jordan licks his lips, "Even better."

"I'm going home. Call me a cab or don't." He purses his lips to the side as he pretends to process this, then abruptly shifts past her, steps to the curb, and whistles for a cab. In the first instance of her voluntarily touching him that he can remember, she steps forward and leans against him, "Thanks." Jordan plays it cool.

* * *

Months after the night that did not end in a kiss, Jordan and Katherine have settled into a friendship. There's still some tension between them but they can casually and skillfully sidestep it by now. Jordan's still seeing other girls. No one serious, no one he thinks about after. He doesn't know what she's doing.

Tonight Denim, the band he co-formed after leaving the last one, is playing a local club and he's invited her to meet him. Backstage Jordan's pacing as he's tunes his guitar. He's talking to a couple people when he spots her coming in through the greenroom door. Wow. That black formfitting strapless dress, with her dark hair tied back in loose, luscious curls… he loves it. But, there's something in her hand — a guy. She's holding the hand of a guy in a suit jacket and tie. And then they're right in front of him. Jordan swings the guitar to hang behind him from its strap, and stands, feet apart, with hands jammed in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Hey there," he nods. Who is this guy?

Kathy smiles, as warm as ever, and tucks a loose curl back behind her ear. "Hey." She leans forward to kiss his cheek, but it takes Jordan a moment before he leans forward to accept. "This is Thomas," she informs him. "Tommy," she says to the suit jacket, "Jordan."

"Hey." Thomas gives Jordan a head nod and reaches to shake hands. Jordan hesitates a second before he withdraws his hand from his pocket and extends it to the guy. "So," Tom looks him over as he shakes his hand in a firm grip, "this is the work hand — the builder of community greenhouses. Or," he turns to Kathy, "is that you?" Jordan doesn't respond; he doesn't know what to make of this guy. Did she bring a date to his show? He turns back to Jordan, "Glad it wasn't me." Having let go of Kathy's hand he now puts his hands in the pockets of his designer jeans. "So, you're playing tonight?"

"Uh," Jordan juts his lower jaw to the side as he tries to work out what's going, "yeah." Who wears a tie to ski town bar or a garage band rock show?

Kathy speaks up, "I'm gonna hit the bar. Takers?"

"I'll go." The snappy dresser looks to Kathy, "Beer?" She nods. "Jordan?"

"Yeh." He clears his throat, "Sure." Thomas heads through the greenroom and exits into the club.

Kathy looks around at the room, taking in the other band members, their friends. She looks back to Jordan, "I'm excited to see you play."

His eyes narrow imperceptibly, "What's going on?"

"Uh," she answers breezily and without guile, "Tom dropped into town today, so, here we are."

Though he's trying to keep his cool, he's gotta ask, as nonchalantly as possible, "What's his story?"

Kathy's forehead furrows in confusion, "Uh, he's …"

"You guys go back a long ways?"

She looks at him, "You're kidding." Her eyes narrow in disbelief, but he doesn't say anything. "Thomas Reese." She waits. "My brother."

Jordan bites his lip. Idiot. Desperate idiot. Get a grip. "Right."

Thomas returns with three beers in hand. "Siblings," Jordan reflects aloud, looking from one to the other. He takes the beer Tom hands him, partially lifts it in a salute, then drinks. "So, who's older?"

"Ya heard of Irish twins?" Jordan hasn't.

Thomas tilts his head in her direction, "She's older, but we were born the same year." He drinks, "And same year at school."

Jordan nods. "Shared friends with my sister too."

"How'd that work out?" Tom asks, just to make conversation.

"Pretty good," Jordan says into his beer. It seems there are some stories there.

"Nice Gibson," Kathy remarks. "That an SG?"

Jordan's caught off guard. "Yeah." He looks at her, "You know guitars?"

"Some." Jordan catches Tom rolling his eyes, and he takes this to mean that there may be a lot about Katherine he still has no idea about. And he likes knowing it.

* * *

In early March, Katherine's in a bar, there to hear a band play. Her eyes are smoky, her black top is strapless, and her jeans tight. The darkness of her hair, the clothes, and makeup is offset by her pale luminous skin and her chunky, brass stud necklace; the effect is captivating. Trying to take a phone call, Katherine exits the club into the dim corridor leading to the bathrooms and alleyway exit. She passes by two underage girls seemingly swapping shoes, and a couple pressed up against a wall vigorously making out.

She speaks into her phone, "Tom? _ Hello? _ Tommy?"

She checks her phone - can't seem to get reception, and so she hangs up. Her heels echo in the concrete hallway as she paces and attempts to redial. The couple partially disentangles as the guy pulls back. Though his face is free he's still leaning into her, his hands up against the wall, her arms around his neck, and her fingers clutching his hair.

Surreptitiously the man glances in Katherine's direction; it is her. He exhales. And despite his intention, she looks in his direction and sees Jordan standing there, anonymous girl still in his arms. She smiles.

He blinks once then speaks; "Hey, there." Jordan rolls his eyes and does an understated head nod in her direction.

The girl now follows Jordan's gaze and sees Katherine looking poised and polished in contrast to smudged, tussled, and raw. She looks to Jordan, "What's going on?"

He answers, but his tone is curt and ungenerous, "Nuthin'."

Katherine smiles again before heading off, "'Night."

* * *

It's early April and Katherine has come to see Jordan play a set with Denim. When the set is over she heads backstage. She's smiling and bouncy as she does, and she spots Jordan immediately, "Hey rock star!"

From across the room Jordan grins and cups his hands to his mouth and calls out, "Yo!"

As she approaches she high fives his band mate Warren when he holds up his hand to her. Standing before him now she looks up at Jordan, "Prit-ty good."

"Good to hear." He grins. He likes her understated, non-gushing way to pay a compliment.

She squints for the effect of jovial confusion, "Think I'm supposed to say that."

Jordan presents his fist for her to bump, which she does, "Touché."

From somewhere behind them, Hamish, another band mate cries out, "Oy! Everyone who's going out's coming out!" in an attempt to heard the band and so-called entourage to the after-gig carousal.

Eyebrow cocked and mischievously inviting grin in place, Jordan looks down at Katherine, "Ya coming?"

"Not tonight." He guesses he's disappointed, but he is not at all surprised. She pats his chest, "Great show."

"Thanks. Great neckline." He nods towards her sweetheart cut yellow chiffon dress, enjoying playing the rake with her.

Her eyes roll, "Shut up."

"Just sayin'."

Her head tilts and she shifts her weight, "Okay; that's enough. See ya around."

"You got it." He waits for her to turn away before he adds, "And wax up–" Jordan pauses for the innuendo to sink in before he continues, "We're hitting the slopes Friday. Gotta get in at least one more day before the mountain closes." Kathy gives him a silent thumbs up and walks away.

* * *

_Posted 1/2/13_


	36. Growing things

_**More of this chapter is still to ****come... [**The story contains one instance of adult language and the new addition contains a scene of adult content**]**_

* * *

In late May Kathy calls Jordan, "Hello?"

"Hey; it's Katherine."

"Yeah. What's up."

"Question: What kind of a farmer do you think you would make?"

After greenhouses and bike rides he still didn't see that one coming. "There a punch line here?"

Kathy expands, "My friends have a peach farm in Northern California—"

"Of course they do."

"Right. —And we go out there every summer and help with the harvest. This is me inviting you. _ Would you like to come?"

Jordan repositions the phone. "Peaches?"

"Uh huh."

"Really?"

"Yes." She says simply, "I think you should make the trip with me. Can you get away?"

"To pick peaches?"

"Mm, hm. I'm leaving next Thursday; can you make it?"

Jordan doesn't know what to think. Why is she asking him? They're certainly friends, but not like this. He still feels like he hardly knows her. And farming?

"For how long?"

"A month, maybe less."

A month? Work aside, could he even do that? A month of such close proximity while ever held beyond arms length? And even if he could do it, does he want to? Jordan's not a farmer. He has no hidden aspirations to be a hippie. He can tell she wants an answer.

Why is she asking him?

"Can I let you know?"

"Thursday. Make sure you have a hat. And sunglasses. And a pillow. Work gloves would be good. And a towel."

* * *

Two nights later Kathy pulls up to the bar where Jordan works; he's coming off shift and she honks her horn as he passes by. Seeing her he crosses over to her as she lowers her window to lean out to him. "Hey there," she smiles.

"Thirsty?" Jordan answers wryly.

Katherine shakes her head, "Heading home; just taking a head count."

Jordan bites his lip and looks her over — she wants him to come but she isn't particularly campaigning for it. Her plan seems to be to cajole him and wear him down with her absolute assurance that he will.

"Of one?"

She looks at him, her brows raised, "Is that it?" Jordan's not sure. She looks at him, thinks, then shifts back to facing forward in her car. Katherine restarts the ignition and shifts into gear; when shes's about to pull out she looks over her shoulder, "You should bring a guitar. And a swimsuit. And a hat." Jordan's nod is meant to humor her, not to serve as his consent. She taps her steering wheel; "Thursday. It'll be good." She drives away.

* * *

Early Thursday morning Katherine Reese pulls up to the small back alley parking lot behind Jordan's brick walk-up apartment building. He's already there waiting for her, ready with two cups of coffee and a backpack. At his feet are a small duffle bag and his acoustic guitar case.

"Good morning." Jordan's not sure if he minds how much she seems to be beaming. It's gorgeous as hell, but he's not sure if it's not a little smug as well. In either case he's pretty sure smug's not her style and this is just her pumped for the adventure.

"Was thinking 'bout making a last minute run for it," he half confesses as she parks and climbs out of her Beetle. Jordan drinks his coffee, "Do you want to take my truck?"

"Uh," she looks around, "if you want."

"I want. I'm not driving all that way to California in German a lemon." Kathy concedes and Jordan hands her a coffee, "Dark, with soy." Each using one hand only as they hold their beverages, they move her bags from her car and load the truck. It does not escape Jordan that she hasn't packed all that much, nor does she have one of those modern cases with the wheels, ten thousand zippers and a pull out handle. Figures. Everything he learns about her he likes.

Jordan sets about arranging the truck bed as she parks her car in his spot and hangs the parking pass from her windshield.

Jordan moves to climb into the cab until she stops him. "Hold on." For the first of many times Katherine pulls her camera from her bag and snaps a Polaroid of him beside his truck. Once she has it she nods a go ahead, and, shaking the photo, climbs in herself.

Starting the car Jordan turns to her, "Ready?" She gives an understated thumbs-up and he shifts into gear and pulls out onto the road.

Once out of town and on the highway he glances sideways at her, "So, you do this?"

"What do you mean?"

"You go to California for a month to pick peaches, you go to Colorado to build a greenhouse."

Kathy laughs, "So I'm a flake?"

"Listen," he shrugs, "I tend bar and run ski lifts, I'm not calling anyone a flake." Jordan finishes off his coffee and thinks about a cigarette.

"You left out musician."

"Barely," he scoffs.

"Oh," Kathy teases, "so self-deprecating. Please." He casts a sideways glance at her and smiles briefly. This could be a good trip.

"So, there any art to peach picking."

"Can you tell the difference between ripe and not? Actually," she starts over, "there is something to it — stems and branches, they'll walk you through it."

* * *

After a day of driving Katherine pulls the black truck into the center lot of a roadside motel. The place is a relic of cross country road trips, lit by the majestic glow of nostalgia and neon signs. The largest of which, forming an arch over the sidewalk to the front office is the blue outline of a swallow for the place's namesake, (also in electrified blue lettering) "Blue Swallow". This set above the pinkish-red letters spelling "MOTEL". This moderne monument to motor travel and kitsch aesthetics is flanked by several more smaller illuminated and mulit-colored signs touting "100% Refrigerated Air", "Office", "Color TV", "Super Prices", and most significantly, "VACANCY." At the back of the property, high up and flickering, is a sign adverting "POOL", but it's too dark to see one back there.

A bell on the door jangles when Jordan opens it for Katherine as they enter the office. Jordan greets the clerk who raises his head from his magazine when they enter, "How's it going?"

"It's alright. Need a room?"

"Yeah." Jordan absently inspects the vintage postcards on the counter; "A double. Double beds," he amends, and mutely holds up two fingers to further clarify.

The clerk nods and types into his computer, "How was the drive?"

"Not bad." With his elbow Jordan blocks Katherine's effort to hand over her card and instead pulls out his wallet to hand over his own credit card.

In exchange the clerk hands over two sets of keys. Real keys, with dangling plastic keychains adverting the establishment is 'Nonsmoking', any place with magnetic key cards is miles away from here. "Okay," he drums the desk, "pool's closed for the night, the ice machine's broken, we've got coffee in the morning, there's a decent bar four doors down, and checkout's 11:00."

"Great." Joran wags the keys.

"Have a good night."

"Yeah, thanks man." Kathy leans against the door to open it for Jordan, and catches the key when he tosses it to her as he passes through.

* * *

Jordan twists the key and opens the door. When he sees the room he pauses, then pushes the door further open and steps back to allow for Kathy to pass through first. Starting to cross the threshold she then stops short and cracks up. "Oh my God! What a great room!"

And it is, after a fashion: Rust-orange carpeting, dusty-rose coverlets, space-age side table and chairs, and a desk and chest of drawers that look as if they'd come from the office of 1950's mid-level beaurcrat. Kathy reaches into her bag.

"Out comes the camera," Jordan smiles wryly and he leans against the door jam as he waits for her to document this time warp of a room.

"Absolutely." She pulls out her Polaroid, which she's been using all day long to shoot roadside attractions, kitsch signs, mountains, clouds, the road, and Jordan. She snaps a few pictures and waves them absently in her hand as she turns back to him and smiles, confessing, "I'm so happy right now."

Leaning on his upright guitar case, Jordan unshoulders his backpack and duffle and lets them drop to his feet. "Go for a couple of beers?"

* * *

In the dive down the street Kathy returns from the bar with two beers to Jordan who's staking his claim on next game on a pool table. Katherine hands off the beer and clinks his bottle with hers. "Thanks." He nods at the green felted table, "You play?" It came out in the form of a question, but his meaning is that she must.

Kathy drinks, "Not well."

"Perfect, we'll play for money."

She laughs as he grins at her. "Gotta hit the juke box." As she walks away, Katherine calls back with pumped up emphasis, "Who's up for Jim Croce?"

Bemused, Jordan rolls his eyes and laughs into his beer. This girl's the best. He was crazy to hesitate when she asked him on this trip. Fuck getting to fuck her, it was good to be near her, and she made a good friend. The music changes and he laughs. And fuck if she isn't playing "A Long Time Ago."

From across the room Jordan drinks his beer and watches her — the disarming smile, those unmistakable bright blue eyes, her figure in the worn jeans and thin navy plaid shirt. He loves her in her boots and rolled sleeves and the felt fedora cocked just so. Again against his will Jordan feels a rush of desire for her. But Jordan takes another drink and lets it go; he's been curtailing these feelings since he met her. By the time she's returned all thoughts of her body and the tawdry beds in the ridiculous motel room four doors down the road have successfully been quelled and have dissipated. For the time at least. Now with brotherly swagger he tosses her a cue. "Alright," he rallies with a grin.

Jordan finishes his beer with a grin and sets the bottle down with finality. "We're gonna need a lot more of these."

* * *

Upon returning to the room several hours later and a little better for the wear, silence sneaks in where it had not been all day. Suddenly there are changes to be made, less clothing to wear and beds to lie down in. Under normal circumstances neither one is particularly bashful or modest, but sharing a bathroom, a bedroom, and all the rest makes one more self-conscious than one ever was before. The room is small after all and it makes it difficult to ignore the elephant between them. But both of them are champs and they push through any tension with sheer conscious determination to be cool, be normal, and not make things weird or junior high.

They brush their teeth in relative quiet, and Jordan, hoping to end the night on an honorable note, is glad for her full length white chambray pajamas that do little for her figure.

They're in bed quickly but the tension does not disappear entirely when the last light is switched off.

"Goodnight." In the darkness she lies there feeling a little awkward for saying it, like on the first night with a new college roommate.

"'Night," he responds. He hears her head turning on her pillow. "'S a good day," he adds.

"It was."

He yawns. "Glad I took you up on it."

Katherine smiles into a yawn, snuggles in, pulling the covers up tightly around her shoulder, and allows her heavy eyes finally to shut.

* * *

_P__osted 1/21/13_

* * *

There are leaves on the surface and sand on the floor of the motel pool. Katherine lays in a slightly rusted chaise poolside as the morning light warms the cracked concrete deck. While Jordan showered and checked out she'd gone for a quick swim and is now taking pleasure in the slow sensation of her strapless vintage inspired one piece suit drying in the sunshine. Eyes shut behind her Clubmasters, she leans back and listens to the Belle and Sebastian track playing on her iPod.

Above her the burnt rust towering motel pool sign casts a looming shadow across the otherwise uninterrupted landscape of the Americana cement oasis.

"Kath!"

She opens her eyes when when she hears her name called.

Jordan, newly showered and dressed, has turned in the room keys, packed the truck, which's left still running behind him, and stands at the tall metal post fence dividing the weedy parking lot from the all but empty swimming area. He holds two Styrofoam cups of motel coffee as he calls out to Katherine, not giving himself a chance to appreciate the view. "Hey."

When she looks up he jerks his head towards the car. Kathy rises, pulls on a dress, and right before him changes out of her still slightly damp swimsuit. Jordan turns to wait at the car; he doesn't need to be thinking about that all day.

Shouldering her canvas tote bag, Katherine steps into her shoes and exits through a side gate into the parking lot. Though still early the day is well on its way to being another warm one — underfoot she can feel the difference in the heat as she moves from white concrete to the black asphalt. He hands off a coffee and they both climb in, nearly pulling shut the heavy doors in unison.

"Nice swim?"

"Mm, yeah."

Seat belts click, the gear shifts, and once again they are on the road and on their way.

* * *

Several hours into the drive Kathy pulls the car onto the side of the road and cuts the engine. She doesn't say anything, she seems to be in thought.

Jordan stirs and looks over to her. He clears his throat. "You okay? Want me to take over?"

Katherine shakes her head silently and removes her sunglasses, laying them on the overheated vinyl dashboard. "I need some air." Unlatching her seatbelt she steps out of the truck and walks into the field, not bothering to shut the door behind her. She doesn't look back as she calls back to the car, "If you're coming, grab that blanket in the back." He does so, and in a short bit he's caught up with her.

Jordan surveys the vista. "It's pretty here."

He isn't expecting Katherine's question when she turns directly to him and asks, "What made you decide to come?"

"Uh oh," he kids, "regretting it already?" Standing there looking at him, hardly blinking, he sees she's waiting for an actual answer. He swings his shoulder in her direction, "You convinced me to go." He smiles his most benign flirtatious smile at her, the one used on teachers and the mothers of friends.

She doesn't seem to have noticed. "How did I?"

So Jordan shrugs, "Never seen a peach farm. Never seen any legit farm. _ Why?"

"There was nothing more?" She's still looking at him in that same way, open, direct, listening.

He can't swear to what she's getting at, but then you don't get anywhere without giving something away. He looks at her from beneath lowered lashes, holding her gaze, taking in her lips, her eyes, her self. Jordan blinks and his voice is a little huskier than it just was, "Yeah; there was something more." He smiles a little to fractionally dissolve the tension, "I didn't exactly come out here to pick fruit."

"You didn't come out here just to sleep with me." It wasn't a question, she's telling him in case he hadn't realized it.

Jordan's surprised she came right out and said it, but he appreciates her candor and answers her in fashion. "No." And he didn't.

"You wanted the experience." He nods slowly, never breaking his attention from her face. He'd do anything to be able to take hold of her, to touch that face, her waist, those lips. To have his hands in that luscious chocolate hair. Her focus hasn't strayed; she looks at him with meaning and with emphasis, "And I didn't ask you for this."

Jordan nods. "I really know that."

"Tell me again, there's no one anywhere waiting for you, expecting you to come back to their bed. Is there?"

Silently, solemnly, he shakes his head. "No."

"There's no one else who might answer that from a different perspective?" Again his head shakes silently. "No one."

"I don't like to step on people's toes."

"That's a good ethos."

"And—" she looks at him "—I do like you." With this alone as prompting he tacitly reaches his hand to her face, caressing her cheek and neck. When she doesn't move away, or register any hesitation, Jordan brusquely pulls her to him and kisses her intensely. After the first few moments he slows down a bit but the intensity of the kissing does not wan. He's been waiting to have her for months.

Jordan's strong rough hands tenderly explore every inch of her body, followed by his lips. And tongue. Laying her on the blanket in the midst of the field grass he makes his way down where he pleasures her with determination and skill. She pulls him back up to her, unable to wait any longer to be with him. For Katherine too this has been a long time coming.

Jordan wastes little time with the condom and after the first mighty, mind-flooding thrust — a single act he suspects he might never fully come back from in his lifetime — he amends his approach and is slow and controlled — deliberate in his execution of loving her. With every tensing of every muscle he soaks in each singular sensation, studying her, taking her in, refusing to lose himself in some violent mad rush. He's pictured her like this for so long, rushing this, rushing her, would be unthinkable. Somewhere between them the tension builds and his breath stops sharp and quick as he catches himself. The thrill he gets when he feels her pulling him in closer is unnameable.

He holds her beneath him in his arms, he closes her legs behind him. She must be holding her breath — he hasn't heard her exhale in some time — he loves that. Jordan pulls her up, he holds her to him in his lap. There is her breath, warm in his ear like the midday sun beating down on their heads and naked backs. The breaths are coming short and quick now, keeping time with their bodies. The sum of it all is exhilarating but it's the isolated details like her breathing, the drops of sweat on her forehead and the small of her back, the flash of bright blue when he catches her eyes, the weighted bounce of her breasts and the flush in her complexion that overwhelm him.

Katherine gasps— She comes. She comes. The physical and cerebral knowing of it resounds through him: _she comes_. And so does he. He holds her there, her arms clasped around his neck as tightly as her legs are around his waist. He holds her in place, burning sticky cheeks side by side, faces lost in each other's hair, there, together, fleetingly singularly one. With a final release of breath and tension her grip about his neck loosens, but he is not ready to let her go; nor to let himself go from her. But in a little time he must and he lifts her from him and lays beside her. Both still breathing heavily as he removes the condom. Laying there, absolutely motionless, he's still looking at her face, re-memorizing every curve and feature in this new light. Catching him she smiles at him, but he is not yet able to smile; he blinks. Eventually his eyes shut and he takes a deep breath. Breathing slowly, devoid of any other motion than the rise and fall of his chest and the slow quiet inching of his outstretched fingers to find hers, he lays heavy in the sunlight, sinking in to the earth, the grass (almost electric in its shade of green), the humming of insects and the blueness of the sky (not quiet bright enough to match her eyes). The feeling of all this fades away at the touch of her lips on his eyelids, first one and then the other. The sensation of her naked breast brushing against his chest as she does so is enough to arouse in him again every desire he'd just thought quenched. But he takes her hand. And kissing it, holds it to his chest. He lays there, feeling the summer heat upon his face and the soft touch of her thigh against his leg. And he breathes. Once settled he looks at her through squinted eyes and this time does smile. Boldly, and beautifully. And the smile becomes a laugh, as does hers, and he reaches out for her and pulls her close, wanting to feel the weight of her body on his. There's not enough of her for him to wrap his arms around but he does so anyway, holding her tightly about the waist until he knows for sure she's there. Then lets her go. As soon as she's risen, sitting up to reach for her dress, he misses the touch of her soft rich curls about his face and he reaches out the stroke her hair as she pulls it lightly from under her dress's collar.

As in the morning by the pool she's dressed so quickly; he watches as her underthings are tugged and fastened, disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt and moving softly up her legs and arms. Jordan in turn grabs his briefs and pants and is soon dressed.

Standing there facing one another, dressed once again, they look much as they ever had, save for the missing shoes, tousled hair and enlivened complexions. _Had it even happened?_ He knew it had, but with no words spoken it could quickly disappear; such things do happen.

Walking back towards the car, Jordan carries the blanket and his boots in one hand, and just momentarily his other grazes hers, almost holding it, but then lets it fall away.

Wordlessly Katherine climbs back into the truck, reclaiming her post in the driver's seat. Jordan walks around the back, lightly clapping the tailgate twice as he does, opens the passenger door, and climbs into the cab beside her.

Kathy starts the ignition, laughs slightly, finds her sunglasses, pulls her hair up off her neck and ties it in a knot, and pulls back onto the road.

Jordan scratches his head and with a wry smile remarks, "Didn't see that coming."

She glances over to him, "Didn't you?" That smile. That regal, winning, conspiratorial smile slays him. And with nothing else he can do, Jordan lights a cigarette.

* * *

They're quiet for some time as they drive; road trip standbys Creedence and Petty seeing them through. When eventually Katherine pulls into a gas station they switch seats again and Jordan takes the wheel for the remaining stretch of the trip.

* * *

As they draw closer conversation drifts back and Kathy begins walking Jordan through who will be there, who owns the farm, how they met, and all the background he should know. Jordan tries to keep it straight. Secretly he feels more like a man than he can ever remember: driving her, the unattainable beauty, in his beat up pickup truck through farmland of America. His mind drifts back to that grass field.

* * *

_Posted 4/12/13 (More on the farm still to come)_


	37. Yearbook

_**This is a really old piece. There are a few small moments that were later written as backstories (two of which have now been posted). Does anyone know if there's a way to insert a hyperlink (or even just a link) within the text of a chapter? I had the idea of posting this chapter with links from the flashback triggers to the stories they reference. Thank you, help and feedback both are so greatly appreciated!**_

* * *

Twenty-five-year-old Angela Chase is home in Three Rivers for a visit. She is in a semi-divey bar with four friends she's brought home with her. They are standing at the bar - the two girls sitting on bar stools - drinking beers, laughing and talking. From the other end of the bar a man, about twenty-seven, aloofly makes his way through the crowd heading for the back patio; as he passes by the room-length bar the partial profile of someone catches his attention in his peripheral vision. The nose, the smile, the face, something from his past so recognizable. He stops behind the person and speaks her name.

"Angela?"

The partial profile turns to him revealing the face he'd thought he'd seen. '_What was she doing here?_'

Angela turns from her beer and from her friends to find standing before her the face that matches that deep and dulcet voice. Against all odds she's looking into Jordan Catalano's oh-so-familiar face.

She speaks his name softly, "Jordan." She smiles, "Hi."

Jordan smiles, and scratches the back of his head; though the moment is slightly awkward he speaks casually and warmly, "How'ya doin'?" Holding a bottle of beer in his hand he gestures slightly with it as he speaks to her.

Angela's friends have turned and are taking in the exchange, unaware of the history between these two. Unaware that there had been love, unaware there had been break up after break up, unaware that for the past three years there has been silence. Very little of any of that is evident in their greetings; Angela and Jordan are smiling.

Still looking right at him, Angela kind of shakes her head slightly to draw herself out of the surprise of seeing him, and hugs him as she answers, "I'm good." Jordan hesitates slightly before holding her. He wasn't sure if he'd ever see her again. Her face had flashed through his memory once or twice since he's been back in town, but Angela Chase hasn't been on his mind in years. But now, gingerly in his arms, she feels the same, she smells the same, and all that he'd felt for her for so long comes back. Jordan's struck by the absolute duplicity of the moment, to be in those feelings, to remember them so clearly, so strongly that they are alive within him, while simultaneously not feeling them at all – these feelings are residual, they are phantoms, this is not his life anymore, but in that moment he'll take her in his arms and welcome it. Taking a small step back from their mildly awkward embrace, she gives his arm a small rub, smiling warmly as she asks, "How are you?"

Jordan clears his throat and glances around the room before his eyes settle back on hers and answers, "Good. I'm good."

"Good." She smiles again. There is a pause in the conversation as they look at each other. _What more is there to say?_

"So," he starts, breaking the silence. Jordan kind of gestures to the people she is standing with to remind her they are not alone.

"Heh," Angela kind of laughs as she remembers herself; "Uh, these are some friends, from school, David, Marjeli, Peter, and Eve." She turns to her friends, "This is Jordan." Glancing at him and speaking in a softer voice, as an after thought she adds as she looks away, "A dear friend of mine." Her friends greet him.

"Hey," Jordan nods, shaking hands with the two guys, "Good to meet you."

"We're just here, for the weekend," she tells him.

"Staying with your folks?"

"In the city; we were just there for dinner. We're driving into Pittsburgh tonight." Jordan nods.

Angela's friend Peter touches her arm before he interjects; Jordan's focus switches from her to him. "Excuse me, Angela? We're gonna grab a table." The other friends have gathered their drinks and are moving from the bar to a booth.

Angela follows them with her eyes, "Uh, I'll be there in a second."

"No, go ahead and catch up, we're fine." Peter extends his hand to Jordan, "Nice to meet you, Jordan."

Jordan takes his hand unclear whether this is a friend or a boyfriend; "Yeah, you too." Peter moves away from the bar and Jordan's attention refocuses on Angela once more; he looks down at her, "Look, I don't want to keep you."

"Would you like to join us?" she offers.

Casually looking around the bar, not focusing on anything, Jordan just kind of looks above people's heads as he thinks, "Naw." Refocusing back on her he says, "Just wanted to see if it was you." A very faint smile appears.

She smiles at him with a twinge of regret, "I wish we had more time to catch up."

He grins as if to say '_That's how things go with us_'; Jordan takes a sip from his beer, and then gestures to her nearly empty glass. "Buy you another?" She hesitates, looks over at her friends' table, they don't appear to be ready to leave; he follows her eyes, "Look, I'll let you get back." He puts his hand on her arm before he moves to walk away, "See you around." He pauses, adding with sincerity, "It was good to see you, Angela." And Jordan turns away.

Looking a little distressed, she looks quickly at her friends across the room then back at Jordan and the back of his head as he heads away; "Jordan, hold on." When he turns round she's smiling hopefully.

* * *

Jordan and Angela are sitting across from each other in a booth in the corner. The bar has filled. She has sent her friends to the city ahead of her, and plans to catch up with them later.

He looks at her, "So, work's good?" He's over the surprise of running into her and is now absently running his finger round the rim of his bottle as he looks her over. She looks the same. Older, but still young. Grown up, but still herself. Pretty, but still awkward. Angela Chase.

"Yeah; you know— I mean," she runs her fingers through her hair, "it's fine."

He asks with a wry smile, "You don't like publishing?"

"No. No— I mean, it's not that. No, it's good." He kind of laughs at her as she seems to be convincing herself, through him, that she's happy.

"And you're living, where?"

"In Philadelphia. I like it." She can't stop looking at him. She's hiding it, she hopes, but yeah, she can't make herself stop. His hair's shorter, there're more tattoo's, he's got a beard again, and he looks older, but his eyes are the same, and that infuriating mocking grin and the expressive eyelash flutter are the same. Jordan. Catalano. She takes him in as he slouches back against his seat, drinking his beer.

"You know, I used to see your sister around sometimes," he tells her.

This takes her out of her head and back to the conversation, she smiles, "Yeah, she told me."

He points at her for effect, "Watch out for that one."

Angela rolls her eyes and takes a drink. She knew all about her sister's crazy days. Or as much as she wanted to, and she isn't sitting there with him to talk about Danielle. "So, how are things with you? What are you doing now?"

Jordan sighs a little, and throwing his head back he smiles recklessly as he returns his gaze to her, "God," he thinks back, "when was the last time we talked?"

She only has to think about the years, because she knows all too well when it was, the last time they spoke, "Two, three Christmases ago."

Jordan nods, it's coming back to him, the infamous night. "Oh. Right. That party."

"Heh," she scoffs ruefully, "that was," she looks blankly at him, "_not_ my best night."

Lowering his eyes, not quite looking at her, he speaks under his breath as he raises his bottle to his lips, "Yeah." They sit in awkward silence for a little while.

Angela reanimates and changes the subject and tone, "You see your dad any?"

Setting the bottle down Jordan keeps up with the conversation shift. "Sometimes. Not much. He's still living in the house though."

"Still playing guitar?"

"Some, yeah. The band I'm with now plays shows pretty regular." He looks at her… "Angela…" He's getting ready to move past the '_How are you's_' and '_What are you up to's_' but she's already spoken before she's recognized this was what he was doing.

"Did I hear you moved out of state?"

Whatever he'd been gearing up to say to her, Jordan lets it go for the moment and refocuses on Angela's questions, "Huh? Uh, yeah; I been in Aspen for a couple years. Still am, just here checking in with a friend, and a job." As an afterthought he adds, "I's living in Mexico for a while." But Jordan catches himself, "Oh, you knew that, huh?"

She smiles slightly and nods with familiarity, indicating that she definitely knew that; in fact, she had been down there with him for a while. They'd done the drive together. Her brows furrow a bit, '_How could he not remember that_.' "Yeah," she nods. "So," she moves on, "are you still doing carpentry?"

He drinks. "Mm, hm. Yeah." Then Jordan clears his throat and elaborates. "Uh, some; kinda' took a break." He drinks again. "Mostly been tending bar and running lifts on Ajax." He shrugs, "Construction in the off-seasons. Some cabinetry, custom. Guess I'm starting to get into it again – custom built-ins, maybe some furniture." He shrugs again, "Can't be a snow bum forever."

"Hmph." She remembers how he'd once talked about doing something like this. She smirks at him, "Do you ski?"

"Not really. Snowboard mostly."

"That's hard to imagine." Jordan was never all that athletic. She knew he'd once played baseball, but he'd quit before she met him. Other than on stage when playing a show, she'd never really seen him all that animated. Swooshing down a snow-covered mountain on a board is hard to picture.

He looks at her amused, "Oh yeah?"

She blinks. _She's doing it again._ It's been years since she was fifteen. Ten. And apparently she's still doing it. _Is she ever going to see him as a real person? As someone other than – Jordan Catalano?_ A waitress approaches.

Looking from Angela to Jordan she asks, "Another round?"

Angela's glass isn't yet empty but his bottle has been for some time; Angela looks to him, "You want one?"

"You don't have to get going?"

She bites her lips before answering, "I have time." So Jordan shrugs his agreement and Angela turns back to the waitress, "Please." The woman nods and walks away. Angela turns back to Jordan, "So you're living where?"

"Still in Colorado. I'm in town for a visit."

"Still see anyone from Liberty?"

Jordan looks up at her from beneath his dark brows, "High school?"

Smiling at Angela, and a little longer at Jordan, their server drops off the new round. Angela smiles in return and takes her new beer in hand.

Jordan hadn't talked about high school in years; he probably hadn't spoken 'Liberty' since he graduated, if not before. Anyone he's friends with he's _friends_ with; 's got nothing to do with 'high school'. _She's so funny, always stuck in the past._ "Some." Feeling obligated, he asks, "You?"

"A few. Rickie's," she says his name in her '_You remember him_' tone, which of course Jordan does, "still in D.C. He's doing great. Sharon Chirsky's _engaged_." She looks up to the ceiling thinking through something, "Well, kind of." She moves on without explaining that caveat, which Jordan appreciates; "She's working in a research lab in Boston. Brian's in Berkley working on his PhD."

"Oh yeah?" Jordan'd always liked Brian Krakow, and he'd never felt right 'bout the discomfort of their last meeting.

Angela smiles, "Mm, hm; I just saw him a couple months ago." She looks up at him, her tone lowers minimally, "Do hear from Rayanne?"

Jordan looks at her a moment, "You don't talk?"

With a touch of regret Angela responds with a rationalization, "We lost touch." They'd made up, back in high school. By the time June came around in their senior year they were friends again. But not like before. And eventually, over the years, it petered out. Rickie wasn't enough to keep them together, and now Angela knew next to nothing about what she was up to.

He nods. "No, I don't know what she's doin'." He drinks. "Tino probably still talks to her."

"_Tino,_" she says affectionately. "How's he?"

"Good. He was livin' in Italy for a while."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He's in Jerome now." He smirks, "Biker ghost town falling down a mountain in Arizona – 'e loves it."

"Obviously."

Jordan grins. "But, yeah, Italy; for like, I don't know, two years, or something. I flew out to see him a while ago." He drinks his beer. "Ever been?"

"Italy?" She slowly shakes her head, and asks, a little dreamily, "Was it nice?"

"Don't speak the language, but, Angela, it was incredible." Saying her name has made the conversation more intimate, and they both become a little more self-conscious. There is a pause in the conversation; she smiles, he '_hmphs_' a small grin. They look away.

"Listen–" she starts to say, but Jordan cuts her off.

"I need'a smoke. Do'ya mind?" He indicates the back door with a head jerk, inviting her to step out with him.

Angela looks around before she decides – she had been about to excuse herself – then smiles and nods once, "Sure." Jordan stands, waits for her as she rises and grabs her drink and bag, and then follows her out to the patio. Once outside Angela falls back to follow Jordan through the crowd. He walks a few steps across the deck to the outer railing backed against a wall of vines. Angela leans, her back against the deck rail, as he takes out his pack and lights his cigarette. Keeping the cigarette in his mouth, he goes to put his pack away; as this is all done very automatically, his eyes are unfocused on his task.

"May I have one?" He looks at her, holds his gaze for a moment, cigarette hanging from his lips, then holds the pack out to her. As she removes one from the carton Jordan takes the cigarette from his mouth, exhales, and looks at her as she raises hers to her lips. Jordan puts the cigarette back in his mouth as he lights hers. Angela takes a drag, without really inhaling, and then smiles at him as she sees he's watching her. "I haven't taken it up; I've smoked a cigarette with you before."

He stops watching her and moves so that he is standing beside her, also leaning against the railing. Jordan is carelessly surveying their surroundings as she continues watching him from the corner of her eye. "I don't remember that," he reflects. Her eyebrows furrow a bit, as if to say, '_I don't get how you don't remember that_.' He seems to have forgotten so many things. It all still seems so real to her. Taking another drag, Jordan says, "My sister had a baby."

"Really?" He can hear the smile in her voice. He doesn't have to look over to see it.

Jordan nods and flicks the ash from his cigarette, "I'm an uncle."

Her voice is instantly tender, which he has no need for, "That's amazing. Boy or girl?"

"Boy." He inhales, "'S name's Adam."

She' still smiling, "Wow. Ben?" He nods. Then, with some trepidation, she looks to him and asks, "And you?"

He looks down at her, "Kids?" He smirks, "No." Without looking at her he playfully elbows her, "_You_?" He knows the answer already, clearly, but he still takes pleasure in trying her.

She scoffs obligingly, then answers, "No." Pushing the subject before she takes a drink she asks, "Seeing anybody?"

In the context Jordan sounds just the slightest bit sorry to say it, "Yeah. Kathy."

Angela puts on the courteous smile and asks the requisite follow-up question, "For how long?"

He looks at her, then wordlessly takes the cigarette from between her fingers, stamps it out on the railing, then lets it drop to the ground. She lets him do it because she knows she wasn't smoking it and because she likes to feel the sense of familiarity that seems to still exist between them after so long. "Ahh," he looks up at the stars as he takes a drag and exhales, "we've been living together," Angela swallows, "for..." he stops to think again, "six months? Maybe. I don't know, could be less."

"Wow."

"You said that already. What about you? Still with that guy? Uh…?"

"Evan? No." He nods knowingly; she's silent, not particularly relishing being single while the very-not single Jordan Catalano's around. He takes another drag while she takes another drink. Eventually she smiles, looks at him, then looks away and then eventually back at him, still smiling; he watches her as she does this. She slaps his arm lightly with the back of her hand, "God! I can't believe you're here! It's like – I don't know!" Still smiling, but smaller, she leans her head against his shoulder; he looks down at her, then wraps his arm around her. He finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the railing beside him, and sighs.

He speaks softly, his voice sounding a little detached as he gazes ahead, moving little, just kind of thinking, "Miss you."

With a small smile her somber inflection says '_Me too'_, not '_Of course you do'_: "I know." His hand that is holding her arm gives her a slight squeeze. He does miss Angela. After how'd they'd left things, it's nice to be with her now, friendly, like all those other things hadn't gone down. In so many ways that he hadn't expected she still feels so exactly like his. No matter that he no longer wants her in that way, and that he'll be flying home to someone else, this evening of unanticipated nostalgia is something he's glad for. He pulls her in just slightly tighter, and they stand in silence for a while.

"I think I'm going out to San Francisco in two weeks," she shares as she looks up at him.

"You 'think'?"

"I am."

"Oh, yeah? Work?"

She shakes her head and tugs at her earlobe, "Berkley actually. I'm going to see Brian." Again she looks up at him to see his face.

"Oh?"

The short glance she gives him communicates more than she's saying, "He asked me to come and see him." Jordan purses his lips to the side, and for lack of any other response he nods. He gets her meaning, and he's not sure if he's surprised.

It wasn't that she and Brian had fallen in love. It wasn't that at all. But after years of friendship, of phone calls and emails, and the very occasional visit, something else had kind of slipped itself in. It didn't look or feel anything like what it did, or would have, in high school, and probably nothing real would come of it, but it felt like the time to test it out and try it on. Brian had changed, a lot. And by now he'd been broken up with his long-term girlfriend for six months. If there was anything real there, maybe it was time to find it.

Sounding upbeat as he resumes his normal voice Jordan says, "Well, you look great."

Angela laughs and rolls her eyes, shrugging his arm off of her shoulder. In a dry but playful tone she says, "_Thanks_."

"No," he's speaking in earnest, "that could be really good. _ Krakow's cool." She smiles at him weakly.

"You don't think it's too...? Convenient? Unlikely?"

Once more Jordan shrugs. "Hey, sometimes 'unlikely' works," and he winks at her for the fun of it.

Angela swallows a smile and pushes her hair away; "Should we get out of here?" He looks at her, takes her unfinished beer from her hand, finishes it, and nods.

He straightens up as does Angela and she follows him as he makes his way through to the door. "I'll give you a lift into town," he tells her.

* * *

On the interstate driving into the city, Angela sits in the passenger seat looking out the window into the darkness. She turns towards him smiling, "You know, I still listen to your CD sometimes."

Jordan looks at her incredulously, "No you don't."

"The one your band made, the one you gave me? Yes I do."

"_Nasdat_?" He's cut a few self-made CD's with the bands he's played with over the years, he's not sure which one he gave her. She smiles and nods. Almost in pain he groans, "Ah, Angela." He looks over at her, focusing on her face for an extended moment, then returns his attention to the road, "That album's terrible. Trash it."

"I like it." He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Silence. She runs her fingers along the base of the rental car's passenger window; nostalgically she asks, "Whatever happened to the Plymouth?"

"Died. Somewhere in Mexico. Cost too much to fix so I sold 'er to a buddy of mine."

Angela runs her finger along the roof of the car, remembering the old convertible top, and casts a quick glance to the backseat, "That's sad. I remember you in that car..." He glances over at her.

Changing the subject he asks, "So, ya movin' to California?"

"Hm?" she says, pulling herself out of her memories.

"Berkeley."

Angela laughs a little and shakes her head, "Way too early to call." She's kind of amazed by it when she begins to think of this act of maybe pursuing a relationship with Brian; her voice takes on a quality of distant whimsy, "I don't know; it's so new... I'm excited though." Jordan glances at her; that made him smile.

Referring to the off-ramp into the city he asks, "Am I getting off here?"

"Uhh," she looks around, "Two more. The hotel's in Lawrenceville."

"Look at you," he teases. She rolls her eyes. Driving on, watching the road, he speaks her name with meaning, "Angela–" Biding time he pauses while he shifts gears, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. Then Jordan starts again, "I regret things didn't– That they always seemed to– We were never able to–" She smiles warmly at him and in perfect understanding leans her head against the cool window. Shrugging, he continues to explain, "I guess I just kept thinking that eventually we'd be able to make it work."

She nods silently. "I know."

"And then we fucked it up." She makes a conceding face, recalling the last time they saw each other three years earlier.

"I'm glad I ran into you tonight."

He nods, still watching the road, "Yeah."

* * *

_Nothing ever happened between Angela and Brian, but this was the night that Angela and Jordan found their ways back to being friends._

_Posted 11/12/12_


	38. Congratulations

_**A series of progressive but i**__**solated**_ scenes (Sorry for the accidental editing error in earlier postings of this chapter)

* * *

In the newly purchased 1957 Pittsburgh home Jordan and Katherine are working on renovating, amidst sanding, staining, rewiring, and installing of new windows, further complicated by insurance inquires in the form of paperwork, phone calls, and emails, Jordan's cell rings. Having been waiting for this call his answer comes off more expectant than it would normally. "Hel'o?"

"Hi," is the informal response smiled on the other end of the line.

As it was not who he'd been prepared for, he starts over from scratch. "Hello?"

"_Hello_?" Now she's not sure he's heard her.

"Yeah?"

"Jordan?"

"Yeah." This conversation's going nowhere quickly. Or, slowly.

She tries again, "It's Angela. Chase."

"I know who you are."

"You had me wondering." Definitely more rattled than she had been just a minute earlier, she pushes on. "You okay?" Jordan wasn't the world's best phone conversationalist, but this had reached undeniable awkwardness, and in spite of herself she begins to second guess herself — _Are they friends in name alone now? Is she meant not really to call? _ Is this because of the new girl?_ She didn't think Jordan'd date someone like that, but she's never met Katherine—

"Yeah. Sorry; it's crazy here."

She wishes, not for the first time, that he were more verbose. "What's going on?"

"Don't worry about it," he shrugs it off. "What's happening?"

"Nothing. Just, called to catch up." Even over the phone it's clear Jordan's still distracted. "You sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah. Just waitin' on a call."

"Oh." Umbral traces of insecurity keep her from wanting to seem intrusive. "I'll let you go."

"It's cool." He clarifies, "Call waiting." Angela's eyes roll; God forbid Jordan ever let a person think he's giving them more than he is. She isn't his priority right now, and conscious of it or not, Jordan's going to let her know. "So," he clears his throat, "I should prob'ly tell you what's going on."

"Okay…"

"Katie's pregnant." Something in her stops.

Never really had she seriously thought it would be her he'd ever say this about, but still, somewhere inside of herself, Angela's younger self snagged on this news and's left her stuck; she cannot move on. "Wow. _ Heh, wow. Um," she can't think of what to say, "how far along?"

Though Angela's thrown Jordan's casual as ever. "Seven months." If he'd noticed anything in her response, he was decent enough to overlook it. Per usual, whether due to generosity or inattentiveness, Jordan could be depended upon to let a person's worser showings slide. For that Angela is grateful, but still she hates that there was something to detect. Even more she hates that he may have detected it.

"Wow." She's still coming across stunned. The way he'd brought it up she'd have expected it to be new. Seven months is not new. It's birth-plan-in-place not-new. She repeats herself again. "Congratulations. Wow."

"You said that."

"Yeah." Angela readjusts the phone against her ear. "_Well_, — _wow_ — uh, 'congratulations'." She rolls her eyes; she's got to let herself say something else.

"Thanks"; Jordan mildly laughs at her before he moves on to offhandedly elucidating the current ongoings; "Just uh, trying to get the medical insurance thing worked out for the midwife."

Angela blinks; one thing after another is just smacking her in the face. _Midwife_? She catches her breath; _this is real_. _ She hadn't realized it was like _that,_ between them... _This is silly_. He hadn't been hers in years. And sillier still since it'd been less than a year since they'd reentered each other's lives. Still though, down, inside, in that unvoiced shadowy part of her inner self, she'd maybe seen something in it that neither she nor he had had children. A glimmer of a possibility yet.

There was also a part of her that had never expected it'd be him, Jordan Catalano, to have a family before she did. Not this way, not whole and happy, and smug. _Okay, he wasn't smug._ It wouldn't occur to him to be smug. Because it wouldn't occur to him that she'd be smug in his place. Life wasn't a competition to him and though she didn't want it to be for her either, sometimes out of nowhere a scoreboard, in the form of a mortgage, a ring, or, a new baby, would appear and knock her off her footing. Her chest feels heavy and for the split second all this flashes through her head, breath is hard to come by.

Even if he were not distracted Jordan wouldn't have noticed. His general hazy nonchalance toward — everything — is graciously allowing that way. And while partly it hurts to know that he hasn't considered this news would mean anything more to her than it would to any other well-wishing buddy in his world, it has saved her the shame of being suspected of jealousy. In truth, it is not jealousy. She does not want to resent this girl or this new baby, she wants nothing more, well... than to be happy for Jordan. And so, from years of (in spite of herself) studying at Patty Chase's feet, despite the difficulty of the circumstances, Angela's face lifts into a smile. As she speaks her emotions are contained, but her words are not empty; she is indeed happy for him. For them. "This is big news." Suddenly she feels as though she's aged five years in the last fifty-five seconds. _Isn't that what it is to be adult? To selflessly, as best one can, wish the best for another?_

"Yeah." And already Angela can't quite recall what this is in response to.

_A baby. Jordan Catalano's going to have a child. In two months he'll be a father. A parent... _She can still remember when he could barely be in a room with hers. _Now he would be one — a parent._ It's hard to conceive of. She wasn't exactly looking to have a baby; at not-quite twenty-six having a child was still only an abstract and distant thought to her. But now it struck her: _If Jordan Catalano was ready for a kid, how could she not be? In theory anyway._ The elusive, unquantifiable criteria of maturity seemed ever to be changing the mark. "It's the car key thing all over again, isn't it?"

Jordan smiles vaguely in response, "How do you mean?" He does not remember the reference.

"Just, you were always older, more ready for things. With your car keys and black coffee and cigarettes—"

"Gave that up," he interjects.

Angela smiles obligingly then continues, "You were always just on this side of adulthood."

Jordan only smiles. Angela _would_ still look at things as 'grown-up' or 'not'. "Suspect there's something more to it than coffee and cigarettes," he blithely remarks. And less this invite her to unearth memories of the things she's heard about his years in his father's house, he adds, with a slight smirk, "Anyways, I _am_ older."

"And you've got the kid to prove it."

At this he laughs. "Not yet."

"Well," Angela says more earnestly, "you're gonna be great."

He's still ill at ease with sincerity: "That's what they say." Angela can hear him smirking halfway across the country.

She smiles, but finds herself now utterly without anything more to say. Nothing she'd called to say feels as though it measures up. What's more, he just seems inexorably further away from her now. Forever no longer hers. "Well, uh, I'll let you go; I don't want you to, uh, miss your call." She means it when she says again, "Congratulations. Really. Keep me posted."

"You okay there?" Jordan smiles.

"_Me?_" she covers, "I'm good." To prove it she brightens her tone; "So, uh, say 'Hi' to Kathy for me." Awkwardly she amends this with, "I know I haven't actually met her or anything, so, if that's weird, then…"

Coolly he interrupts her qualifiers before she prolongs the equivocating — "I'll relay the 'hi', and 'congratulations'." Unable to resist, he adds, "Like, _thirteen_ times." Jordan's mocking her. These days he's always mocking her; that distant form of familiarity that cuts. But she smiles.

"It's big news. It deserves thirteen congratulations. _ Right?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Well, here's number fourteen: Congratulations Jordan. It's wonderful." Her tenor deepens with sincerity, "It—" but once more he cuts in.

"Hey, listen, that's the other—"

She nods. "Okay."

"It's just that—"

"No, it's fine," she assures him. It's possible she's working too hard not to be an obstruction in this life of his. "We'll talk soon."

"Sure." Jordan switches over to his other call.

Angela exhales. And hangs up the phone. _What just happened?_

_Posted 12/26/12_

* * *

Back in Three Rivers, Jordan's pulls up outside his father's house. Since moving out Jordan's spent next to no time here. His room's there still, in the back of the house, but he'll never spend another night under this roof. Though his younger self, who spent way too many nights there, wouldn't have believed it, he does, infrequently, keep up communication with his old man, and on occasion he even returns to this old house. As he is doing now. It goes in phases, his tenuous relationship with his father; it was about a year before he made contact after he first moved out, and about another year of silence went by when he was down in the gulf of Mexico. But Jordan never shut his father out completely, and so they do call the other now and then and they shoot the shit and take in the odd ball game, and they keep things on the surface. On the surface they can be friends. Or friendly. They've been playing that game for years.

Lisa still never speaks to him — their father. Ben'd bumped into him a couple of times early on, but she hasn't laid eyes on him since she left. The only Catalano Lisa considers family is her half brother. She cut them all out, the few members of the Catalano clan. Jordan however, and she almost even likes him the more for it, keeps up with their dad's brother Nick, and his family. Jordan's not close with his cousin Ryan, he's younger than he and Lis and never really hung out with them, but now they maybe see each other once or twice in the course of a year. Lisa though walked away from them all. Nick's a decent enough guy who enjoys his big brother's kids (the red Plymouth had been his before it had been Jordan's, and Jordan still wears the motorcycle jacket that had been handed down to him), but Lisa only sees an adult who didn't step in when an adult really needed to, and so she wrote him off and never looked back. Ben's family was hers. His mother and his sisters. And when Ben's father died when she and Ben were newly seventeen, she'd felt that loss more than she'd felt anything to do with severing the ties with her own father's family.

And of all the times Lisa did not think about contacting her father, it was furthest from her mind when her child was involved. She didn't understand what was making Jordan do this — involve their dad in he himself becoming a father. Granted, Jeff is hardly who Jordan confides in, and the birth is already less than two months away, _but still._ Jeff and Nick only knew about her own child from Jordan, who'd said only that she'd had him and his name was Adam. If it were up to her, Jordan would do no more for his own child and then shut that door and walk away, but something in him won't let him do it, and she's let it go, like J'd let her go. Jordan had never asked her to stay for him. And because he had known what he'd be getting himself into when he stayed behind, he never complained to her afterwards. He certainly never tried to convince her to mend fences or to forgive or forget. He never brought the old man up at all, and for all that, she could let it go that he was keeping the lines of communication open. She realizes it speaks volumes about Jordan's character, and's one thing more setting him miles above the likes of Jeff Catalano and what he deserved.

The door of Jordan's black truck slams shut behind him as he pauses to look back at the house where he grew up. He's come today to do something he hasn't done since he was seeing Angela Chase; Jordan's bringing home his girl. Despite his reservations, more than seven months into the pregnancy he figures it's time to introduce them.

With something less than enthusiasm Jordan lops up the front steps to his father's house, Katherine following close behind. From behind, a person wouldn't know she was pregnant. She's as fit as ever, dressed in slim jeans and sandals, and her black, slightly sheer, cotton top that billows in the front is slit up the back, revealing glimpses of her waist and back as she moves. Being pregnant hasn't made her precious.

Glancing back at her first, he knocks quickly. From habit Jordan then moves to open the door but pulls his hand away, deciding instead to wait. This isn't his house, and life's better because it isn't — _don't move backwards._

Positioned slightly behind him, Kathy watches Jordan's back stiffen imperceptibly as he braces himself. "Okay?"

He nods.

The door opens, and Jeff, older, but still disarmingly virile, stands there smiling ruggedly with a little bit of a conspiratorial swagger, "Hello."

"Hey," Jordan nods, friendly enough but reserved. Jordan's not fully himself when Jeff's around. "How ya doin'."

"Good." He nods inside, "get in here." Jeff holds the door open wider and Jordan passes through, followed by Katherine, smiling at Jeff as she does. He greets them as they pass, "Jordan." He looks at her, "Sweetheart."

"This is Katherine," Jordan needlessly points out.

Kathy holds out her hand, "Hi."

Jeff takes it and shakes, "Jeff Catalano; a pleasure." He pulls her in for a hug. "Good to meet'ya. Sit'down." They do. Jordan looks around. The room is the same. The TV's changed. And there's a new armchair and the sofa's in a different spot, but the place is just the same. From the corner of his eye he spots that old photo on the wall of him and Lisa. _This is so strange_; he looks away. Jeff nods to Jordan, "Beer?"

Jordan looks him in the eye, delaying his response for a beat longer than what's appropriate, then clears his throat and speaks, "Sure."

Jeff nods and moves past them to the kitchen, "That's my boy."

It isn't the beer to which he's referring, but the unmistakable insolence Jordan's always armed with. He'd long ago dropped it from his day to day arsenal, but it sneaks back in when his dad's around. Not even at his own command, because it makes him feel like a kid, and he's an adult — he doesn't need to be obstinate and difficult to be in control; Jordan bites at his thumb and reminds himself to be amiable. Bringing Kathy into the mix must've put him a little on edge, 'cuz these days they're good for hours without incidence.

Reaching into the fridge for the beers, Jeff looks back towards the kids, speaking with patronizing good humor to Kathy, "Not for you Honey," he pops the tops shrugs, "these days they look down on that kind of thing." Jordan rolls his eyes. From the kitchen Jeff returns with the two beers and an unsolicited coke for Kathy, which she takes from him, but opens only to be polite. He looks her over for the first time; "Look at you," he smiles. "Beautiful, and round." He hands the can over to Jordan, and muses as he crosses to his armchair,"There's something about pregnant women..." He reflects back on something then takes a drink; "His mom looked like a queen."

Jordan's officially uncomfortable. Jeff tended not to mention his mother, it was certainly not in the best of lights when he did. He must have loved her at one point, but those were never the stories Jordan heard. And he was okay with that; there was no love lost between him and his mom. The last time he saw her went about the same as the first: she was still selfishly unrepentant and still only interested in the parts of his life he didn't give a damn about. Hearing her mentioned, in any light, does not bother him, but he only signed up to deal with one parent that day, not both. Jordan sits motionless, making an effort not to slip into miserable. He changes the subject, "How's work?"

"Yeah," Jeff scratches the back of his head, "it's fine." He drinks. "The work on the house, how's that going?"

"Yeah," Jordan clears his throat, "it's coming."

"It's lovely," Katherine contributes. "But it's a work in progress. It won't all be finished before the baby comes."

"Ah, don't worry about it," he good-naturedly waves her off. "Kids are really adaptable." He takes another drink. "Things don't have to be perfect."

Jordan has trouble swallowing this. _Why is everything so laden with darkened meanings? _But, determined to let the past lie, knowing living in it only imparts it with power Jordan long ago resolved he never would, it is his long cultivated dark sense of irony rather than any stirrings of rage or resentment that is triggered when this shared past is thrown in his face in the form of a pithy and seemingly benign maxim. Jordan shakes his head, which goes unnoticed by his father, and Katherine smiles and accepts the home improvement advice.

"So," Jordan clears his throat, "you been following this year's trades? Anyone good coming up?" Carrying on a relationship with a person who was meant to love you but more often than not beat you instead is a tricky business, one Jordan's mastered over years of traversing a nebulous line. It demands a short memory and takes treading lightly, deft grace, a sharpened sense of humor, and in this case, knowledge of baseball. The conversation redirected, Jordan, his father, and his lover manage an amiable and uneventful first visit.

* * *

A week after the home birth Tom comes to Pittsburgh for a visit. Paying his taxi, Tom mounts the front steps and knocks on the door. Since she'd followed this Catalano back to Pennsylvania he's seen Katherine just the once she flew out to visit. He hasn't seen Jordan in almost a year, and this will be his first time seeing her new home, and of course her child. Katherine, dressed in black tights and a sky denim baby-doll frock, eagerly opens the door. She wears baby Grace in a wrap, and he grins at her and takes her in, "Hey Mommy." She looks exactly the same to him, though not as well rested.

Kathy reaches out and pulls her to him. Thomas holds his sister and kisses her, then cups his niece's tiny head and kisses her. "Come in." Tom kicks off his shoes, leaving them in the basket with the others, drops his duffel and un-shoulders his messenger bag, and follows her into the house. Looking around he takes in all the work she's been describing in phone calls and emails, "It's nice, this place."

Kathy laughs as she settles into the slate mid-century sofa and extracts her child from the wrap, "That was convincing."

Tom's grin does does not counter her accusation. He takes a seat in a stripped Danish armchair and doesn't break eye contact. "This his place or yours?"

"This again?" she asks dully as she positions the infant to nurse.

"Listen," he deflects, "just gauging the parameters of this game of 'house' you two are playing."

She shakes her head and smiles at him in irony, "_Oh, so old fashioned_." It isn't that she isn't married, clearly. And it isn't even that Tom especially dislikes Jordan, but he doesn't know him, not like he feels he should, and even with Kiley and Jeremy's approval, it's all happened much faster than he'd been prepared for, and with so little warning. Katherine doesn't take it seriously because it just won't do for the hostility to stand, so by sheer force of her will Jordan and Tommy will become friends and then brothers. Tom sees this is her intention, and once again he surveys their surroundings, "So, this is your life now?"

"Been working pretty hard at it," she remarks. He nods. "Get over here." Tommy looks at her, sets his hands on his knees, then rises and crosses towards her, sitting beside her on the sofa.

Katherine passes the baby to him and he cradles the pink infant in his arms. Tom studies the small one. She's clothed only in a cloth diaper and white long sleeved shirt that snaps at the side; she cannot keep her eyes open. There are tufts of dark fuzz on her head and her entire face wrinkles as she yawns. "She's pretty." Kathy lays a cloth over his shoulder and watches this first meeting. He gets a brief glimpse of the deep blue eyes before the tiny eyelids flutter shut again. "Where's your guy?"

"Work."

Tom looks away from the baby and back at his sister, "He really deliver this?"

"Pretty much."

"You were there too," he kids.

"I had something to do with it, yeah."

He looks back at Grace, and sighs. "Okay..." Tom resigns himself to allowing for first impressions not being everything, and decides that its boring and predictable not to like a sister's man, and after all this guy not only fathered but delivered his niece and built this lovely home with and for his sister. He can't look down on that.

* * *

Shane's come to see the newest, smallest, sweetest smelling Catalano. Dressed in denim, leather, and dark tones, the two men stand with the baby girl, dressed in a plumb sweater and bonnet knit by Kathy. Shane inspects the little one. "So this is her."

"Yup," Jordan confirms, the baby balanced on his outstretched tattooed forearm.

"Yeah," Shane nods, "she's okay."

Jordan chuckles, "We're thinkin' 'bout letting 'er hang around."

Always one for understated humor by way of dryly observing the obvious, Shane states: "She's little."

"They come that way, yeah."

"So, they grow?" Shane feigns dumb ignorance.

"I think," Jordan plays. "Least, that's what they tell me."

Shane nods. "I gottcha."

Still holding his daughter extended out in his left arm, Jordan crosses to the fridge and pulls out two beers. With one arm full of Miss Grace Catalano, Jordan wields an opener to single handedly pop the lids one at a time. He hands one bottle to Shane then takes a swig from his own.

Shane raises his bottle slightly, "To Gracie." He drinks and looks about the bright, sunny, uncomplicated life Jordan's built for himself. The room, which he gutted and did over, is warm, cheerful and plain. The baby is sweet and fragile and tender, and Jordan is self-assured, at peace, and very much a man. "Gotta say, doesn't look so bad from here."

Jordan smiles vaguely as he takes a drink, "It's a trip."

* * *

Late morning on a bright Sunday, the warm light streams through the high bedroom windows as Jordan and Kathy lay atop their linen bed with Gracie snugged between them. Kathy absently taps her forefinger in their daughter's small palm, gently pulling back each time from her grip, and continues their conversation, "I only know what you've told me, which I know wasn't all of it, and," she kisses his forearm, "every good thing you are might be in spite of him, but you and Lisa are okay." She leans back to look at him, propping her head in her hand. "What I mean is, he's not going to hurt her." It's come up again — _will the family relationship with Jordan's father be relegated strictly to Jordan and the old man, or will they play the part of a semi-functional family unit? Do they introduce him to Gracie?_

With reservation Jordan lifts his eyes to her and she holds his gaze until he looks away again. "We'll both be right there." Jordan says nothing, just silently listens. She takes his silence as indirect leave to make her real point, "If there's a part of you that wants your father to know your child, then we should go." Jordan rolls on to his back and tugs the small girl onto his chest. She bleats then nestles in. His large steady hand rests on her back and Jordan shuts his eyes and breathes. Watching them, Katherine pushes the hair away from her face. "And going once doesn't mean we'd have to go again."

Jordan looks at her steadily, "I can't—" In frustration he exhales and looks away. In the moments there are things on his mind that he does not care to voice, Jordan wishes he'd never given up his cigarettes. Smoking was the perfect gap filler, a convenient starter for a self-preserving non sequitur, and (excluding a kiss and what often can follow) the most satisfying cover for calculated silence. For lack of a cigarette and his newly forsaken smoking habit he can bite at his thumb or crack a knuckle, but just now he lifts his head to lay upon his palms as he raises them behind him, elbows up. Again he looks at her, through narrowed eyes, for Jordan really does not know if he has the answer: "Is it because I don't want him in her life, or because I don't want her in his?"

Though he wants it, she does not answer him. Instead she sits up and gently lifts the baby from him, positioning her to latch. Jordan watches, missing the slight weight of the sweetly pajamaed bundle on his chest. Katherine kisses the top of the infant's head as she nurses and she looks at Jordan, studying him and considering all he's ever said to her about his father. What she's heard has come in fits and starts and has never neared forming a full narrative; chiefly absent of specifics, there were scars that mutely filled in some of the blanks. She recalls also her one encounter with the man to date, all she's learned about Jordan himself that he's never had to tell her, and too that the question's been raised at all. Katherine assesses the issue with measured response — she needs to be level-headed for him and to account for his concerns; she talks their way through it, "Letting her in his life, it gives him something he doesn't deserve?" Resistant to being analyzed Jordan grudgingly blinks his confirmation. And when she speaks again she looks at him pointedly, "What does having _you_ in his life do?" Jordan doesn't want to see himself like she sees him, or like he sees his daughter — having him in your life shouldn't be looked at as some kind of prize; so in answer Jordan meets her eyes, then rolls his and looks away. But Katherine has no deference for his self-deprecation. "You don't have to worry about her," she says. "She's going to be okay. I won't let her hurt. You won't let her." Feigning disinterest Jordan rolls over to sit upright at the edge of the bed. Speaking to his back Kathy reiterates, "You won't let him hurt her."

Jordan glances back at her, remarking dryly, "Pretty confident about a scenario you've never been in." He rises and heads to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

* * *

Tino's flown up from New Orleans where he moved after the hurricane, and stands there with Jordan, holding the tiny thing upright in his impressively chiseled arms. "Hey little girl." Tino lifts the infant closer to his face, his lips hovering above her head as he speaks softly to her while looking straight at her father, "That's your old man; don't worry 'bout it if he doesn't say too much." Jordan watches, listening to what his friend has to say about him. "He's got your back; an' far as that goes, you couldn't have anybody better. And listen," he repositions her, cradling her in his arms, "I'm your Uncle Tino, you need something, you come see me." He lowers her again, adjusting her in his arms a bit and returns to his normal volume as he speaks to Jordan, "This kid's gonna be okay." Grace coos winningly and he glances down at her with a smile. Pacing, he pats Jordan's shoulder as he passes by, "You running on empty?"

Jordan shrugs, "We got her sleeping with us, so, we're all pretty much sleeping through the night."

"So what you're saying is, it's a snap," Tino quips flatly.

Jordan smilies appreciatively as he looks on as Tino paces with her, and he reflects on his new life with his young daughter. "You think, ya know, 'it's an infant — it's _me_, living _my_ life, with an infant'."

"But?"

"But it's not just you, it's two of you, and you're only fifty percent of the equation. Or," Jordan amends, "twenty."

Tino chuckles, and directs his attention to the baby, "You high maintenance, girl?"

Jordan swings his shoulder a bit to signal his daughter, "Gracie's alright."

"I don't know, man," Tino shakes his head ruefully, "all the Catalano's having kids. Look'a you, lousy with respectability." He grins. "I like it." As an afterthought he adds, "JC, Momma's going nuts till you get her over here to see the blessed child."

Jordan smiles. "Yeah, get 'er over here."

"She's claiming her as a grandchild," he warns. "You know that, right? There's no escaping it."

"Wouldn't try."

Tino gives the baby a little bounce as he looks on her fondly, "Gracie Stanton Catalano. _ Love it."

"Love the girl not the name," Jordan says as he sits, legs stretched out to the coffee table, leaning back and strumming his old acoustic guitar.

* * *

Among the many friends and family members who have come to visit are Wilson and his wife Samia, with their nine-year-old son Colin. Since moving back to Pittsburgh Jordan's been hanging with him regularly and the girls became fast friends. The decade age difference and the former nature of their relationship have little bearing on their current friendship. They've always just liked each other.

At his father's prompting Colin knocks and momentarily a very smiling Katherine is there opening the door.

"Darling! Hello!" Samia kisses Kathy on both cheeks. "How are you? You look wonderful!" Overcome, Samia pulls Kathy in to her again kissing her once more.

Katherine laughs warmly, "Hello! Come in! Hello Colin." Colin hands her the bouquet of flowers they brought and she opens the door wider for them to enter through. Wilson kisses her on the cheek as he passes by. "Hi Matt."

"Katie."

Katherine walks them down the hallway, holding Colin's hand in one hand, his flowers in the other. Samia whispers to Katherine, "Is she awake?"

"In and out, but she's fine, you don't need to whisper. We're actually trying to be as loud as possible."

Wilson rubs his son's head, "I know a man who can help you out with that." From the entranceway they enter the living room, which is still a work in progress but is sunlit, minimal, and comfortable in warm neutrals and natural materials. In a moderne armchair by the wall length window looking out on Katherine's kitchen garden, Jordan sits holding the baby tucked into his arm. He looks up as they enter, "Hey there!"

Wilson slaps him on the shoulder and Samia leans down, laying her hand on his back and kisses his cheek. "Hello," she smiles warmly. She inspects the baby and cannot contain her genuine gush, "She's gorgeous! Truly." She looks to the new parents, "Are you getting any sleep?"

Kathy exchanges a look with Jordan and kind of smiles. "Some." Pregnancy brought with it unexpected strange conversations. Never had her weight, or her sleep habits been a topic of conversation, or her stomach part of the public domain. "Can I get you something? Something to drink?"

"Don't you dare fuss over us," Samia charmingly scolds. "Sit down."

Wilson leans in towards Jordan, "How's it going? Freaking out?"

Jordan glances down at his daughter, "We're cool." Grace yawns and flexes her hands as she sleeps. "It's intense."

Wilson nods, "That it is."

Kathy lays her hand on Colin's head, "Colin, would you like to hold the baby?"

Colin nods. "What's her name?"

"Grace," Kathy answers.

"Col, sit down," Wilson instructs. Colin does, taking a seat in mid-century rocker. "Okay, do you see how Jordan holds her?" Colin nods, watching closely.

Jordan rises, and standing over the boy, asks, "Ready?" Again Colin nods, and Jordan places the infant in the boy's arms.

"Be sure to support her neck — don't let her head fall," warns his mother. Looking on, Samia observes, "She's divine. Delicious."

"Uh, oh," Wilson feigns panic at his wife setting her heart on a baby. "Watch out."

"Shhhh," Samia laughs.

"_Do it_," Jordan cajoles in a deep voice, then chuckles.

The adults' conversation is lost on Colin; the boy is fascinated with the tiny bit of life in his arms.

* * *

"Okay..." Jeff says, looking them over. After eight weeks, Jordan has come with Kathy and the baby. He's ambivalent about it at best, but in the end he figured his dad was either in his life or not. He either needed to at least make the introductions or put a stop to the whole thing. And it seemed to him that the statute of limitations on just walking away was up years ago. To cut ties now seemed arbitrary and childish, and so they came.

Jeff, who never took any particular joy in parenthood, is very pleased with his grandchild. "So, this is the little girl." Jeff crosses his leg, setting his ankle on his knee, and leans back in his chair. He points at Kathy, wagging his finger at her as she sits with the baby by the front window, "Good job having a girl. Boys," he reflects, "they're a lot of trouble." Jeff tilts his head as he scratches his jaw, "I should'a had a girl."

Jordan averts his eyes cooly. "You did."

"Christ," Jeff smiles, "that's right." Attempting a justification, he scratches his head and nods towards the baby in Katherine's arms, "Wait till this one leaves home at fifteen." He shakes his head, "Kids…" Jordan methodically cracks the knuckles on his right hand. Kathy glances at him, knowing they are not off to a great start, and Jeff pops some peanuts in his mouth as he thinks something over. Baby Grace coos.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Jeff straightens up and changes gears, "So," he looks to Katherine, "when's the wedding?" Katherine smiles benignly and shifts her focus to the baby. Jordan remains reclined in his chair and drinks his iced tea. The nonchalance of his demeanor is studied and practiced. Every move he makes is purposeful, as is his stillness. Being there is enough, he hadn't signed up for questions. His father assesses their reactions; "You're not getting married?"

Gracefully skipping past the question, Kathy looks to him with tilted head, "Want to hold her?" Jordan's head snaps to his father's direction. They hadn't discussed this.

Jeff waves her off, "Nah, she seems okay there." But then Jeff sees his son's eyes shut as Jordan relaxes and looks away. "Well," he shrugs, "why not?"

Kathy nods and slowly rises. She crosses the room and places the infant in his ready arms. Jeff holds the child gingerly, and Jordan, silent and motionless, sits inert as he looks on. "Look'a him," he says to Katherine; "he's nervous." He reminds Jordan, "I _have_ done this. Your sister _and_ you." To prove his point he bounces and cradles his granddaughter. He proceeds setting Jordan straight, all the while never looking in his direction, "You were in my house for eighteen years. Not with your mom." He pauses to wipe some moisture from Grace's chin, using his shirt sleeve to do so. When he speaks again it's to Kathy, "You really should marry him Sweetheart; he's never been much for sticking around."

At this Jordan rises, crosses the room and wordlessly scoops up his daughter. Jeff gets that he's pissed him off, and he checks himself a little; leaning back with arms propped up, he begins again: "She's pretty. Gonna be a looker." Jeff drinks his tea to allow room in the conversation for things to be forgotten, or leastways side-stepped. Having done so he starts in again, playing the benign braggart, "It's in 'er genes. I never had any complaints. This kid," he off-handedly indicates Jordan with his glass, "'s always done well for himself in that department. And you girl," he shakes his head in appreciation, "God."

Jordan lets this on top of everything else go and instead occupies himself with studying his child's face: her small nose, pursing lips, and dark fluttering lashes. She is rosy and sweet, and it is the strangest thing in his life to have her, all inconsequential 8.4 pounds of her, in his arms in this house where he never could have seen this for himself. _How could this room, this house, those memories, and this little girl exist simultaneously?_ Because he never does, he doesn't stay on this thought long. To be Jordan Catalano means such thoughts are pragmatically never lingered on, but he catches sight of that windowsill, of the stove range through the kitchen, of the door frame in the hallway, of that gouge in the wood floor, and of that one kitchen chair... and the thoughts do come. One amongst them being: _Can he, that messed up kid, be any kind of a parent?_ He shifts his baby upright and holds her against his chest as he paces with her by the front door.

"Yeah," Jeff's continues, paying no notice to Jordan's self-exclusion, "I had some snapshots of his mom somewhere, but I think Jordan nicked them sometime back." Jeff leans forward slightly, meaning to impress upon Katherine the caliber of woman Jordan's mother was, "_Incredible_."

Jordan sighs; he doesn't want to hear anything more about it, just as he doesn't want to hear anything else come out his father's mouth in that same reverent tone he just endured. Turning back to the conversation he says flatly, "I don't have 'em."

"You did have them," his father blithely retorts.

_Yeah_, Jordan had them. Leastways he did when he was a kid. He didn't realize the old man had known about it. Tino has them now. They hadn't been mentioned in eleven years, but no doubt he still has them, stored safely till a day Jordan may decide he wants them. _Maybe Gracie will want them, someday**.**_ Jordan swings his shoulders a bit to soothe his daughter.

'_Daughter_.' It still sounds strange to him. Especially here. He had never known his capacity for love. It had taken him by surprise with Angela, and with Katherine it had done him in — hit him and knocked him out. And with Gracie it's just— It is everywhere, it just _is_. He's absolutely his same self as he ever was, but it's his same self as the father of a daughter. And that did change things. Knowing what it is to be a father to his child has not, perhaps strangely, invoked new rage or resentments regarding the treatment he received from his own father, rather he is all the more glad simply to know it. Glad to have some marker that he is not cold or jaded or shut off, as he sometimes worries that he is. Being a father confirmed like nothing else ever had that Jordan Catalano is not who his father is. Though this does little to quiet his other concern, that there are other things about him that make him unworthy of the vast amount of faith and love entrusted to him by this little, little Gracie girl. Of course she should trust him, because he'd do anything to keep her safe and just who she is, but the responsibility of being a man for her and never being the cause of a moment of disillusionment in her life, he doubts he is up to, or worthy of the charge. And still he holds her close, his calloused forefinger wrapped tightly in her unimaginably tiny hand. That hand, come hell or high water, he will never let go of, carrying her with him, and her mother too, wherever he goes. He may be a better man than his father, and he's probably less than the man these two girls deserve, but he'll strive each day to get it right.

Sick of the drama and sick of himself and all the old shit messing with his head, he decisively kicks back that stupid kitchen chair he'd once had to throw, and brings them back to the Catalano fail-safe topic of the year: the White Sox winning the Series.

...

"So," Jordan breaks the silence as they drive home on the interstate, baby Grace dozing in the seat behind him, "we did that."

"Uh, huh," Katherine confirms. Jordan's quiet; she waits for good timing, then smiles, "My favorite part?" She looks to Jordan and he lifts an eyebrow in anticipation, "His forgetting about Lisa while saying you—"

"You caught that," he says dryly. "Good, right?"

Katherine can't help but emit a wry laugh. "It takes a certain kind of something to so completely deny _both_ your kids in _one_ sentence."

"That's how he rolls." Jordan complacently shifts gears. "He ain't playin' around."

"No kidding. _ Still," Katherine says, "I think it's good we went."

Jordan shrugs, "It is what it is."

Katherine's not going to tell Jordan how to feel about his father and so she smiles blandly, settles back into her seat, props her bare feet against the dash and trails her hand out the lowered passenger window, tracing the wind as they drive. Jordan, weary of being on guard and stoic, and more than ready to relax, kisses his hand and with it reaches over to fondly tousle her hair.

_Posted 1/20/13_

* * *

_Thank you everyone for your support and feedback, it is _so greatly appreciated_! In response to a PM I received: the site does not allow users to leave multiple posts on the same chapter (which can be difficult for this story as the chapter numbers are constantly being re-sequenced and chapters are also revisited and lengthened with new content. If you've run into this problem, you can find another chapter to post to, or post under your username but logged in as a guest. Thank you, and happy reading!_


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